


Dov Ah Kiin

by ilikeyoshi



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood and Gore, Death, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-15 08:19:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 172,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3440138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilikeyoshi/pseuds/ilikeyoshi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Skyrim is ambushed by the first dragon in centuries, Helgen falls and takes Anduin Wrynn with it. Or so Whiterun thinks, but it's been three days with no sign of their prince's body. Hopeful for some sort of miracle, his father orchestrates a mission to investigate rumors of a drifter with a claim as unlikely as the dragon itself. The king hopes that this self-declared Dragonborn might slay Deathwing and find Anduin, but even Wrathion's 'big mouth' may not be enough to thwart the oncoming dragon crisis.</p><p>(warcraft/skyrim au | <em>eventual</em> wranduin | occasional lore discrepancies | chapter warnings!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bok Se Dov

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pre-chapter notes will be used mostly for stuff like content warnings. post-chapter notes are where i'll babble for a few paragraphs about stuff, lori. _things_.
> 
> normally there'll be content warnings in the header notes, but the first chapter is, as far as i'm able to judge, pretty much free of anything i could think to tag with a warning. so! generally you can expect things the "graphic violence" tag probably indicates—blood, some gore, death, that kind of thing. i wouldn't say it's like, _awful_ , and i don't _tend_ to fixate on it, i hope, but i'm just one person with one level of tolerance for that kinda thing. yours might be different!
> 
> Dragon language is formatted like so; **Shouts are bolded**. if you see that format, you can hover over the sentences to read the translation! i'll also post a link to a text document at the end of each chapter containing all translations of the chapter's dragon words in case the code malfunctions or your browser doesn't play nice with the formatting. i won't write anything critical in dragon without an in-fic translation, usually immediately following, but sometimes later on. point is, you shouldn't miss anything important if you don't check the translation link or hover text!
> 
> some last notes before we get started:
> 
>   * **this story is slow to build.** i am notoriously incapable of writing short stories. i'm not even going to _joke_ about how long it takes for wrathion and anduin to meet.
>   * **this is not a romance!** it's there, sometimes, probably, but that's not a centric aspect of the story, so, just keep that in mind. you're reading a story written by an aromantic!
>   * **i am not a lore master,**  but you can assume if i deviate from warcraft or elder scrolls canon, it was only after 3 days of google searching, hair-pulling and a final declaration of "$@&! it!"
> 

> 
> finally, i promise this'll be the only header note that's so long. 8);;;

Chapter 1: Bok Se Dov  
"Age of Dragons" 

———Last Seed 20th———

The urgent bickering of a dozen nobles, officers and councilmen had the king's mind whirling. They sounded stifled, almost far away from him, as he took in every penned detail of the map laid out before him. While it was marked from corner to corner with black ink, depicting every yard of Skyrim's frigid land, the parchment was old. He hadn't touched a pen to it since its arrival in his war room, except once.

Once, in red ink, hours ago, he circled one city—Helgen—and he wrote simply, begrudgingly,

'dragon attack'.

It should've been impossible—the wretched beasts were practically myth now, having died out eras ago. Such things hadn't been talked of in centuries. At best they were stories to scare the children and demons to organize the superstitious. To Skyrim, and to most of Tamriel, dragons were long dead.

Yet all the reports rang the very same: Helgen was ambushed, three days ago, by a monster unlike anything anyone had ever seen, with scales like steel plates and huge, beating wings that seemed to command the very wind and sky. The beast had teeth bigger than axe heads and sharper too, and when it breathed, it was hellish flames that came forth. "A dragon," according to every last account. There was no other explanation to anyone who had seen it with their own eyes.

Helgen had been ambushed by a wild, hell-bent dragon, and now Varian Wrynn had the problem of an age on his doorstep.

The arguing found him through his dizzied mind. It was loud and near maddening, and in a moment of frustration, Varian slammed his fist down on the table; upon wretched, ruined Helgen.

"ENOUGH!"

The war room went silent at his command, every pair of eyes falling upon him. There was only one thing on his mind now; a clear, isolated thought amidst the spiraling chaos of anger and gut-wrenching dread that otherwise stirred in him like a maelstrom.

"Katrana," he said. It was more like a gritty sigh.

The court wizard lifted her head, expressionless, but nonetheless stepped away from the crowd to the table, scrolls and books clutched in her arms. The others began to whisper amongst themselves, doubt and judgment flooding the room. Varian had none of it.

"I said _enough_ ," he snarled, and they fell quiet again.

He finally peeled his eyes from Helgen and directed them at Katrana, allowing fire into the stare, though it wasn't her he was angry with. Even if it were, it only hid the storming fear deep within him, something he couldn't afford to let show now more than ever. But there was no doubt: Varian's anger was the blunt face of a hammer, crushing anything that stood in its way regardless of if it deserved it, and Katrana was no exception.

"You said you found him," he said, his voice still weighted.

Glances were exchanged among the council gathered behind the table. ' _Him_ '? Surely the king did not mean what their minds all leapt to. Helgen was just a smoldering barren on the edge of Falkreath now, and so was every soul unfortunate enough to have stood within her walls the day fire rained from the sky. And even if he was alive—assuming 'he' was who they suspected—what could _Katrana Prestor_ , of all people, do to find him that Whiterun's deployments hadn't managed in the past three days?

Katrana gave a narrow smile that, as always, did not reach her eyes. "Not exactly, your majesty."

"Then what good are you—"

"Please, my king," Katrana interrupted. "You ask a lot for a day's work. I cannot tell you where he is, but—" she flicked her bangs away with a sharp toss of her head, "—I can tell you most anything else about him."

Varian glared. It was absurd, he reminded himself. Katrana had always been smitten by the little shards of evidence that spoke of dragons, written by dreamers and worshippers, but never had Varian thought he'd need to truly humor the wizard's pastime. Yet here they both were; Varian with a dwindling patience and Katrana with more answers than anyone.

Well, _almost_ anyone.

Varian sighed and turned his head away to pinch his nose. He gestured at the table before him with his other hand. "Lay them out."

Katrana obliged, setting her scrolls and books over the map and blocking wretched, ruined Helgen from Varian's sight. The books were old and wearing, but the scrolls' unbroken edges suggested they were younger. Varian waited, albeit impatiently, until Katrana was finished, then took a closer look at the court wizard's work. The scrolls were records, apparently reports from witnesses. He laid his hand flat on one of the wilting tomes and drew it closer, scowling at the cover.

"' _Dragon Language: Myth No More_ '," he read, doubt heavy in his voice. "What is all this?"

Katrana's cold smile did not waver. "Every scrap of evidence regarding the Dragonborn, your majesty."

The nobles behind her erupted in hushed whispering. The king's face didn't budge as he glimpsed through the witness reports, though he sensed several members of his council glancing back and forth between him and each other.

"' _Dragonborn_ '?" one man finally echoed, stunned. "Your majesty, you don't mean—"

"I asked Katrana to collect everything she could on this Dragonborn, yes," Varian said. "You're all familiar with the rumors, I imagine."

They were. It was hard not to notice the occasional but recurring gossip of a redguard, a _teenager_ who drifted across Skyrim, claiming to bear the blood and soul of a dragon, destined to defend a country that wasn't even his. Even if few knew so much as his name, most anyone seemed to recognize the topic of him, should it arise. He was, if nothing else, infamous.

"But that's all _myth_ now—" another noble started.

"So were dragons until three days ago," Katrana said.

Still, their point held weight. He was relying on what amounted to a _fairytale_ to save his hold. Varian grumbled, pinching his nose again. "Half of these documents are older than the child himself."

"Consider them testimony to support his claim, your majesty," Katrana said. "I've cross-referenced them with every statement from every witness I could find, and, I believe you'll agree with me that each alone proves our Dragonborn is telling the truth."

Varian drew one of the scrolls across the table to read over it. It transcribed a conversation between one of the agents Katrana sent out to investigate the alleged Dragonborn, and a witness claiming to have done a favor for him once. But all this did was confirm the rumors. He needed more if he was going to branch out on a theory as wild as his.

"We'll see," he said. "Tell me about him... this 'Dragonborn'." Even the word tasted strange just saying it.

Katrana shifted, side-eyeing a few doubting nobles as she spoke. "My king, he calls himself Wrathion. Though he comes from the southwestern deserts of Hammerfell, he traveled to Skyrim years ago after supposedly having a prophecy of—his words," she added when Varian gave her a skeptical look, "of having slain a dragon and absorbed its soul, just as the legends of the Dragonborn tell."

Varian grimaced, but returned his eyes to the documents. "He had a dream and declares himself Dragonborn?"

Katrana smirked again. "You are far from the first to call his origins into question, your majesty," she said, eyeing some of the council again. "But all the witnesses I've spoken to who recall a direct meeting with the redguard say the same. He was assuredly confident in his claims, and those he spoke to were hard-pressed to find evidence of any discrepancies."

Varian scoffed, firing a look at Katrana at last. "So he can lie. Give me something _substantial_ , Katrana."

Katrana only looked amused, meeting his glare. "After his self-declared prophecy, he traveled alone to Skyrim to study the ancient ruins of the dragon worshippers." She paused, thoughtful, and what she said next seemed to excite her in a way those accustomed to her were not unfamiliar with. "He believes a new era is coming, my king. An age of dragons."

Varian, however, was not so thrilled with the concept. He lowered his eyes again, rubbing a hand over his mouth. He sighed. "Ludicrous..."

Katrana's eyes crackled. "Yet Helgen lay in ashes, and I needn't remind you our dear Prince Anduin is—"

Varian struck the collection of evidence from the table with a swing of his arm. Papers exploded across the rightmost side of the room, crumbling to the floor. Katrana frowned, but her face remained rigid besides, as the crackling sound of parchment settled in the war room.

"I HAVEN'T FORGOTTEN," came Varian's roaring voice, with all the ferocity of a dire wolf shaking the very walls of Dragonsreach.

The councilmen began to whisper again. Katrana held for a moment longer, then inhaled to speak, silencing them once more.

"There is evidence that suggests Wrathion bears the power spoken of in the legends, your majesty," she said evenly and without charm. "The sorcery he uses bears strong resemblance to the Voice, the very magic the Kirin Tor themselves study atop the Throat of the World."

Varian dismissed the obvious answer. "It takes years to learn magic like that. He's too young."

"Unless he truly _is_ Dragonborn," she said. "Like the dragons themselves, he would be able to use this power naturally with virtually no training. All he'd need are the words in the dragonic tongue and a well of knowledge to tap into."

Varian ground his teeth. "It's not enough."

Finally, Katrana was annoyed; her shoulders wavered and she scowled. "Your majesty—"

"What else?" he said.

She held her breath, then sighed.

"He's gathered a following of sorts. They're called Blacktalons—agents of impressive skill who are devoted to Wrathion." She spoke of these Blacktalons with a trace of malice, as if she found something about them abhorrent. "The Blacktalons believe him to be the Dragonborn reincarnate, and have enabled him to succeed in his endeavors since his arrival in Skyrim years ago."

"What endeavors?"

"His studies, your majesty. As I said, he's spent much of his time here uncovering the secrets tucked away in ancient worship sites and burial grounds. I believe this is where he learned any rotmulagge he's using."

Varian squinted. "Prestor."

Katrana smirked, delighted again. "Words of power, my king," she explained. "What the dragons use to cast their magic. The fact he's developed a following doesn't surprise me either; the evidence is there, your majesty. Especially now that a dragon has appeared and destroyed Helgen. He very well _could_ be Dragonborn."

Varian ground his teeth again. It was almost too good to be true... but then, he _was_ holding out for a miracle.

"And this Dragonborn—if that's what he truly is," he paused, thinking. "He can do what I need him for?"

"My king," Katrana's lips parted into a small but outright grin, "there would be none more suited for your mission than the legendary Dov Ah Kiin."

It was odd how she always enunciated the draconic word for Dragonborn.

Varian scowled at her, then stared down at the map under his hands for a long time. If Helgen was truly attacked by a dragon, then Katrana was right. No one else had any idea how to fight such a creature—though, not even this Wrathion had ever faced one. But if he bled their blood and spoke their tongue...

Then he was the closest Varian had.

"Bring him to me, then," he said at last, and he met Katrana's eyes once again. "Bring me the Dragonborn."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [dragon language translations for chapter 1](http://textuploader.com/4qeh)
> 
> it should probably be noted that i'm using [thuum.org](https://www.thuum.org/index.php) for a lot of the construction of dragon sentences because, first of all, it's way less of a headache, and secondly, the community there has been building upon the dragon language passed even what's in the game, so even though there are whole sections of content there that aren't canon, it ultimately just makes my head hurt less if we all agree to pretend it's canon within the realms of this fic. eve ;;;;;;;;;;
> 
> i. uh. i'm actually very nervous to post this, sooo, i hope you like it! i have a... _crapload_ of this written (100k+ hahhhh), but, i kind of like the giant cushion that gives me if something else comes up (like school (or weird sleep cycles)) soooo i'm gonna try not to unload all of that too quickly. i think i'll have a goal of posting a chapter every time i finish one, unless it's just taking me so disgustingly long i officially feel horrible  & have to ship out a freebie. e_e
> 
> yeah! and, i can tell you it sort of floats in and out of the main questline, so, you don't have to worry about it being a word-for-word retelling in that way i guess. (unless that's exactly what you wanted, then uh, oops.) pluuuus like i said, i kinda mash warcraft/skyrim lore together or, sometimes, sort've make something else up entirely. so. it never really had a chance to follow the main questline to a T, did it? ewe ;;;;;;;;;;
> 
> im gonna stop rambling because i'm really only doing it to stall on posting this because i'm neeeeeeeeervous. :I ;;;


	2. Fin Dovahkiin Bo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **content warnings:** blood, mentions of gashes/burns, mentions of death, teeny bit of torture (just a tweak. or three), unnaturally twisted body part (does that count as slight body horror?), vague mention of animal death (metaphor).

Chapter 2: Fin Dovahkiin Bo  
"The Dragonborn Comes" 

———Last Seed 23rd———

_Our hero, our hero claims a warrior's heart_  
_I tell you, I tell you the Dragonborn comes_  
_With a Voice wielding power of ancient nord art_  
_Believe, believe the Dragonborn comes_

The Frostfruit Inn was silent except for the bard who sang by the large firepit. Normally a song of hope, today the bard recited the dear words of _The Dragonborn Comes_ with a mournfulness to his voice. It was unsurprising, as the whole tavern had come to a prompt agreement that it was the only respectful thing to do in light of the recent tragedy in Helgen.

Helgen being a village well southeast, in the hold of Falkreath. Though not of much importance on its own, except maybe to the Legion, for six straight days Wrathion had heard nothing but talk about the village. Destroyed, they said. Burned and leveled by what the rumors claimed was none other than a massive dragon. But despite the tragedy, the gossip was _fascinating_. Wrathion was certain it was over-exaggerated some—the truth had no doubt been skewed as it drifted farther and farther from Falkreath—but he had heard many curious things. They said the dragon resembled a literal mountain, bursting with magma sealed into his flesh by steel plates. They said the dragon could summon Hell itself from the sky, turning the rain to fire and the wind to ash. They said the dragon was a reaper of souls, plain and simply, come to punish Skyrim for her sins.

The nords had taken to calling the monster 'Deathwing'.

And Wrathion was _very_ excited. Not for the misfortune sweeping across the country—he regretted that he couldn't have saved Helgen, but he couldn't have known. He'd been here, in Rorikstead, completely much too busy reading up on a distant cavern in the southwestern mountain valleys called Valthume. Before this 'Deathwing's' untimely arrival, Wrathion's utmost priority was to uncover the lost valley's hidden treasures, which according to his agents, included a massive wall deep within the valley, erected centuries ago and carved in an ancient, magical language. Wrathion had taken to calling such structures ' Rotvundde'—or Word Walls, when he wanted to be convenient. He _was_ well-versed in the draconic tongue though.

It came with the name, after all.

The bard continued his sorrowful song, and little did he realize that it was the redguard in the corner of the tavern he was singing of. The Dragonborn, come to lift Skyrim out from underneath Deathwing's fearsome black wings. Wrathion, with his Voice wielding power of ancient nord art. Believe, believe, for he _had_ come, and he had been there for some time. Years, in fact—not that many _had_ believed him. His claims, while true, had fallen on deaf ears since he stepped foot in the frigid land. But not for much longer.

As soon as he could find this loathsome Deathwing—or whatever his true name was—and put his Voice, his Thu'um to its ultimate use, _then_ they'd believe him. Unfortunately, the words of power awaiting him in the heart of Valthume would have to wait until he destroyed this dragon, and any others that could appear while he was preoccupied. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that the return of dragons was finally upon him, and that without intervention, the skies would be blotted out by black smoke and beating wings.

So it was just as well he'd been hard at work preparing for this day.

Sitting with him at the table in the corner was one of his two most trusted Blacktalon agents, an orc who had served him loyally for almost as long as he'd been in Skyrim. He honestly couldn't remember her name, but she always stood to his left. And once, when his memory filled with dragon words had drawn a blank, he called her precisely that: Left. She didn't correct him, and since that had sufficed. His other elite agent, another redguard of course called Right, was away and had been for days. With Rorikstead so utterly boring and out of the way, he saw no need for both of them to stand at his flanks, so he sent Right away to learn more about this monumental horror called Deathwing. He was expecting her to return shortly, as a matter of fact. Four days was plenty, especially for one of his best Blacktalons.

The bard finally finished his song, and the tavern politely applauded the miserable performance. Well, not literally miserable—it was beautiful, actually—but the utter woe in the bard's voice was what made it so sad. Skyrim was truly devastated by the loss of Helgen, and why shouldn't they have been? A myth, an extinct monster, had broken through the pane that separated past and present, and now it plagued their dear home. What was worse, they didn't realize Wrathion was already here to make quick work of Deathwing. Soon enough though, they would shower him in gratitude—not that he needed it. It was appreciated, of course, but his motives were bigger than that. First and foremost, he was the Dragonborn, sworn by his very blood to defend Tamriel from the Dov. From dragonkind. Were there not an ounce of gold or thanks involved—and for years, there hadn't been—he still would offer his body and soul and Voice at the chance to rid the world of what he very much planned to be a short plague.

The gold and thanks certainly didn't hurt though.

"Tuh," he laughed, watching the tavern resume its typical drunken buzz.

Left merely eyed him. Wrathion fidgeted; leaning forward, adjusting his seat, then leaning back again, all while grinning at the commotion around him. Privately, Left was grateful he hadn't uttered the word 'Dragonborn' since Helgen fell, if only because he was always so pleased about using it. Not that either of them cared much for anyone's ill thoughts of him, but it did make protecting him a little more complicated, when he went out of his way to sound like he was making light of the first dragon attack in centuries. Any time he chose to dodge trouble rather than start it was fine by her. Although, with how restless he was, she feared it wouldn't—

"You just _know_ the Dragonborn would mop the floor with these beasts for his kinsmen."

Left heard the slurring voice at the same time Wrathion did, and she hoped, before she looked, that it wasn't a nord who said it. But, of course, when she glanced over, he was as fair-haired and robust as any sky child she'd ever seen.

"' _Kinsmen_ '?" Wrathion's voice came over the buzz of the inn.

Left just squeezed her eyes shut and sighed. Speaking of fears.

The man and his two friends, also nords, took a moment to glance around the tavern in search of who had called out to them. Left took the opportunity to try her hand at damage control.

"Let it go," she hissed toward Wrathion under her breath.

"Did you _hear_ him?" Wrathion complained, failing to take similar caution with his own voice.

"The last thing you need is to get caught up in a bar fight before you go to face your first dragon."

Wrathion made a face and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "'Kinsmen', he says," he grumbled, then sneered with a laugh. "Well, won't _he_ be disappointed when his Dragonborn is no nord!"

Left only grunted and similarly sat back. Apparently, she should've tried to fight him down further.

"You know what?" He sat up again. "I'm going to say something."

"Do not."

"It'll serve him right for such an arrogant—"

" _Wrathion_."

He scoffed, and relented. "Everything always has to be about nords around here."

Left only watched him for a few moments longer, until she too settled back into place. There was a silence after that, until Wrathion's bad judgment won out and he unfolded himself from his seat. Left sat forward in her own chair, swiping to grab his arm. He was a quick little bastard, though, and she missed.

" _Sit down_ —"

"You there!" Wrathion shouted over the tavern and his agent's warning.

The three nords looked up in unison, as did a fair few patrons around the inn. Left rose from her seat and pursued him as he approached the nords' table. For as many times as he marched straight through the center of a street, shoulders level and chin high, she witnessed him wiggle through uncaring crowds such as this one much more frequently. Some exalted hero of Skyrim he was.

But then, he hadn't _actually_ slain any dragons yet.

"What?" one of the nords said, upon sighting Wrathion at last. He was the one that had first commented and set off the entire chain of stupidity.

Wrathion set his hands on the table, the impact enough to clatter the silverware scattered about the surface. It made the nords flinch and put them on the defense.

Left wondered, sometimes, if he even knew what a bad idea was.

"Excuse me," he said, smiling and falsely pleasant, "I couldn't help but overhear. You suppose the Dragonborn is your kinsman, is that right?"

The nord Wrathion stared fiercely at, the one who had first spoken, winced at his patronizing tone. "You're saying he isn't?"

"Well, considering the diversity of Tamriel, it seems quite unlikely. What's to say he isn't a, well," he paused, and Left regrettably knew he was looking for the most aggravating example he could think of, "an elf, perhaps?"

Unsurprisingly, the first nord shot to his feet, and his friends were not far behind. Wrathion, pleased with his success, only smirked.

"The legend of the Dragonborn is nordic," the man growled. "Why would he be a damned elf?"

"You need a lesson in history, my friend," Wrathion said. "Certainly, nords do take the Dragonborn legends very seriously, but there've _been_ non-nordic Dragonborn. Unless," he tilted his head, "you only base your facts on Talos?"

The nord drew closer, and Wrathion, with a skip of his heartbeat, shied back from the table.

"Don't misunderstand," he said, raising his hands in a submission as false as his good-naturedness, "the Dragonborn would 'mop up' your dragons all the same, but he's no nord."

"You sound so sure," the nord sneered.

Wrathion's smile perked. "Well," he shrugged, "you see, I'm—"

Left gripped the convenient left-side sleeve of Wrathion's turban, jerking his weight onto his closest foot with but a startled grunt from him. Left didn't speak, she only rumbled at him from the pit of her stomach. Wrathion knew perfectly well what the noise meant.

"You were saying?" the nord grumbled.

Wrathion cleared his throat and straightened his turban. "I, ehm, have my reasons."

"Tuh," the man scoffed.

Left thundered in her throat, and Wrathion decided he'd had his fun, if only so she wouldn't hoist him over her shoulder and drag him away. With another shrug, he spun on a foot away from the table of nords.

"Food for thought," he chimed. "Goodni—"

The nord snatched a handful of Wrathion's tabard, yanking him around and forward with more strength than he initially would've given the drunk credit for. How many times Wrathion would need to be reminded of the temperament of nords before he _got_ it, Left didn't know. She wasn't sure there was a number. Before the man could speak, however—and before Left could fire a bolt into his brain—a hand fell upon his and, with a single jerk, forced him to release Wrathion, who teetered a bit but only tsked, straightening his clothes. Patrons looked on at the small squabble.

"Don't listen to him," a familiar voice hummed from Wrathion's right, none other than his guard of the same name.

"Don't _listen_ to him?" one of the nord's friends snarled. "Did you hear—"

"It was a tactless bet," Right said evenly. "I said he couldn't do it, he said I'd owe him twenty septims if he could. I called him a whelp."

Wrathion sucked in a breath, indignant. Left rumbled again before he could call her rude.

Right turned from the nords, who only half-believed her anyway, and shoved Wrathion by his shoulder toward the door. "Time to go."

Wrathion remained offended. "Tell me what you found."

"Outside," she said.

"No, _in here_ —"

"No, I mean what I found is outside."

His eyebrows twitched. "Oh." He grinned then. "Very well, what're we waiting for? Show me!"

Right pushed him again, and he was the first to step outside. It was dark in Rorikstead; the sun had disappeared hours ago, leaving the whole of Skyrim even colder than normal. Fortunately, her two moons and the torch-wielding patrols along the street kept some of the darkness at bay, and it was no trouble for Wrathion to make his way back to the road before turning on a heel and eyeing Right eagerly.

"Well? Where's—"

Right steered passed him, assuming the lead. "Follow me."

Wrathion had little time to fuss, he just wanted to see what she'd brought back for him. He hadn't expected that much—information, certainly, but a present to boot? Right led him and Left to the outskirts of Rorikstead, never speaking a word and, between Wrathion's internal excitement and Left's usual stoicism, was never prompted to. This far from the town, it was only the moons lighting the way, but the fortunate silvery rocks and patches of snow reflected their light well enough. Right turned into an outcropping of rocks and knelt forward, reaching in to snatch something. She heaved, and a whimper sounded. Then she pulled from the rocks a battered sight of a man, clad in blue and gold, and knelt him before Wrathion.

"Meet Sharkbait," she said, in all seriousness.

For a split moment, Wrathion scowled. What in Tamriel was this? A miscellaneous foot soldier—what was he, Whiterun's? The colors of his tabard suggested so. But he took a closer look, because Right, though something of a jokester, wouldn't have gone to all the trouble to bring him a half-dead guardsman unless he told her to, whether that order was direct or an inadvertent result of another order. And upon taking that closer look, he saw what she must have: his wounds. Deep gashes and blackened flesh. The cuts were from dragon talons, he had not a shred of doubt, and even now, the burns still radiated with magic too rich to be any mortal's.

Wrathion grinned.

"You were at Helgen."

The soldier, gagged, went still at the word. He stared up at Wrathion, his scowl betrayed by fright, and Wrathion was certain why. After all, anyone who survived what befell Helgen couldn't have done so unscathed. Just the name struck fear into the guard.

Wrathion left him for a moment, looking at Right. "Why've you gagged him?"

Right shrugged. "Wouldn't stop whining."

Wrathion pursed his lips. "Fine, fine," he said, then grinned again. "Tell me _everything_."

Right craned her neck from one shoulder to the other, observing the soldier for a time. "His name's Sharkbait—or at least, that's what I got to calling him when he wouldn't tell me his real name. He's one of Whiterun's boys, obviously. Not sure what business Whiterun's got in Falkreath; Sharkbait here wouldn't say. But he looks important, so the business must've been too."

 _That_ was interesting. Certainly Whiterun would've extended aid to Falkreath, but that'd have to be _after_ Deathwing struck. So how did this soldier get caught up in the chaos? What was Whiterun doing in Helgen?

"The wounds are draconic, though," Right continued. "He didn't tell me that either, it's just obvious."

Sharkbait made a mystified noise beneath his gag, rolling his head around to Right. Unsurprisingly, he didn't think it was so obvious. It wouldn't have been, to most. Wrathion waved his hand impatiently.

"Yes, yes, that's all well and good—get to Helgen! What of the dragon?"

Right clucked her tongue. "He wouldn't talk about that. Says he 'can't remember'."

Wrathion groaned. "Absurd—look at him! He's traumatized. Of course he remembers."

Right shrugged again. "You give it a try."

He rolled his eyes. "Fine. Ungag him."

She knelt and yanked the cloth from his mouth. Sharkbait coughed and whined, shuddering in the cold—or perhaps it wasn't just that. After a moment, he looked up at Wrathion, fright still in his glare. It struck Wrathion as misplaced, but perhaps he could utilize it regardless.

"You..." the soldier stuttered. "How did you know I was..."

Wrathion smirked. "It doesn't matter; I know you were at Helgen, so you can forgo lying to me."

He knelt down before Sharkbait, glancing over him again. He had clearly been through quite the ordeal—bloody, burned and not to mention filthy. It was a miracle Right found him alive. Wrathion smiled again, friendlier this time.

"Tell me about Helgen."

Annoyingly, and despite Wrathion's advice, Sharkbait persisted with his lie. He looked down. "I don't remember."

It was an obvious lie to boot. Shameful. But Wrathion maintained the friendly expression.

"Come now, you must remember something," he said. " _Anything_ would help."

Sharkbait shook his head only just. "I swear."

Frankly, Wrathion didn't see the harm in discussing dragons. "Perhaps you misunderstand my intentions," he offered. "I'm not some scrounging spy looking for Whiterun's secrets, guardsman; I'm _Dragonborn_."

He looked up at Wrathion, squinting hard. It reminded Wrathion of a similar look the nord gave him—before he'd gotten entirely angry, that is—but the soldier was still wary, and though Wrathion wasn't surprised, the claim 'Dragonborn' had once again made him no friends.

"Smile harder," Right suggested. "Those red eyes make you look rabid."

Wrathion spared a brief scowl at her, but tried her advice regardless. He offered his best smile. "Be a good sport about it, would you?" he said, his voice on the brink of strained. Who could talk through a grin like this, honestly?

Sharkbait just shied away. Wrathion gave an impatient ' _hmph_ ' and eyed something to the right, to subdue the urge to otherwise glare at him.

"You're trying me, guardsman. Why don't you—"

Movement caught his attention, and the time it took for Wrathion to turn back to the soldier was all Sharkbait needed to smash his skull into Wrathion's. A stunning pain fired up through his nose; the force was so shocking he fell from his own squat on his back, where he promptly surrendered to the impulse of curling up and cradling his bleeding nose. Footsteps thundered all around him, along with blurred voices he couldn't pick apart in the haze. When the sparks stopped flittering all around his eyes, he found himself rolled up on his right side, blood drenching the white in his gloves.

He heard wood clanking and recognized it as the sound of a crossbow. His senses came crashing back into him and he rolled up into a sit, barely registering the sight of Sharkbait, on his feet, and Right in a skirmish. It was Left's weapon Wrathion had heard.

" _Don't_!" he shouted, his voice waterlogged as blood sputtered from his face. " _Don't_ kill him!"

Left hesitated, though only just; the severe glare on her face very well could've killed Sharkbait anyway. Right jabbed the soldier with her elbow, stunning him, and a moment later he was on his belly with a foot in his back. Right spat to the side. Wrathion noted it was red.

He seethed, clutching his own bleeding face once more. So much as tapping his nose sent jolts of pain all the way to the tips of his ears. " _Well_ ," he growled. He spat his own wad of blood into the grass. "Was _that_ really necessary?"

When he lifted his head again, he was only met with a glare. Wrathion seethed again. He'd underestimated the guardsman because of his evident fear, and Sharkbait had taken advantage. The silence they held was long, yet neither could quite admit it as uncomfortable. Angry, yes—Wrathion's face still stung with prickles of pain all through his nose and cheeks, and Sharkbait was forming two bruises in his chin and forehead—but discomfort would've suggested either of them were sorry for the altercation.

One thing was clear: Sharkbait knew the questioning wasn't about to let up, and now, Wrathion knew pleasantries wouldn't get him his answers.

So he huffed, and fresh out of patience he stood up and turned away from Sharkbait. The field that stretched out in front of him promptly blurred as his head felt momentarily clamped between two heavy weights, but even if it hadn't cleared, Left's well-intended but very tight grip on his left bicep would've kept him righted anyway. He pulled free of her, rubbing blood from his nose on the back of his hand. It stung.

"It's late," he said with a sniffle, "and I'm getting tired. So tell me what you know and this will be over with shortly."

It was a simple enough request, wasn't it? Perhaps if the very countryside before him was not in grave jeopardy, he could spare a little more patience. But Helgen was a waste, and no matter how much silence or how many 'I don't knows' followed the question of where Deathwing was, dragons did not _disappear_ into thin air. He would return again, and preferably, Wrathion would be there to stop him.

"And..." Sharkbait hesitated, then swallowed. "If I can't?"

Wrathion sneered.

"Oh. You can. And you will." He tilted his head toward his agent. "Left."

Left grunted in response and closed what little of the gap remained between her and Sharkbait, who immediately began to squirm underneath Right's foot.

"Wait, stop—what're you doing?"

Wrathion continued to observe the field spread out before him as shuffling armor, of leather and chain mail, went on behind him. Sharkbait's voice disappeared into muffled protests as he was gagged again, and the next thing Wrathion heard was an unpleasant _snap_ followed by an immediate, muted scream. Wrathion paid it little mind, tending to his nose and admiring the plains stretching far to the northern mountains instead. The snow was all that set them apart from the black sky beyond them, reflecting the two moons' light, outlining them against the darkness.

After two more screams, Wrathion raised a hand and, when Left moved away, turned back to them. On his knees again, Sharkbait's left wrist hung at an unsightly angle in his bindings, which besides the pain it caused the soldier, also served to make the evident break in Wrathion's nose sting. He winced, then returned to Sharkbait's front and tugged his gag free, met with gasping and slight whingeing.

"Now," Wrathion chimed. "Care to try that again?"

Sharkbait only spat, striking Wrathion close enough to the eye for him to shut it reflexively. He hissed, shying back and rubbing the mess away as Sharkbait spoke with a wet, fractured voice. "I don't know."

Wrathion observed his hand, noting the traces of blood. Admittedly, he hadn't expected the broken soldier to hold his ground, nor for his eyes to remain strong even in the failure of the rest of his body. Why were nords so stubborn? Wrathion sighed deep from his chest and stood again. He eyed Left and nodded back at the guardsman.

"This time, don't stop until he's ready to talk."

Left grunted again, and Wrathion crossed his arms, back turned once again. In moments, muffled crying returned to the edge of Rorikstead. Right meandered to Wrathion's appropriate side, her presence surprising him, but he quickly realized it shouldn't have. Her lip bled, slight bruising beginning to take color around the corner of her mouth, but she seemed unaffected by the wound. She eyed the field for a moment, looking for whatever he always seemed to find when he stared at the wilderness.

"You look proud," she said.

Wrathion raised an eyebrow, tilting his head toward her, though his eyes remained on Skyrim. "Do I?"

She nodded. "Like a parent. Or something."

He smirked and laughed once. He faced Skyrim proper, considering her words for a stretch of silence. "Perhaps I've just come to..." 'Love' was probably the right word, but he hardly felt like dealing with her unwanted scrutiny should he use it, " _appreciate_ this place."

Right scoffed anyway. "I guess you're the one that'd have to. Me, I think it's too cold. And _wet_."

"Oh, don't get me wrong, it's _very_ cold." He stressed the word almost bitterly.

"That's it," Right said.

"What is?"

"Where the parental sense is coming from. Even when it screws up, you're still wild about it."

It was Wrathion's turn to scoff. "On second thought, I don't like comparing Skyrim to people."

Right smirked, amused. "You don't like people?"

"Have I ever had much reason to?"

"Like you really hold a grudge against everyone who calls you a fraud."

He eyed her, flaring. "Why shouldn't I?"

"You should," she said, and her smirk grew, "but you don't."

He huffed, snapping his head away from her and shrugging. Perhaps 'jokester' wasn't the right word after all. He caught some muffled noise that sounded like 'wait' and turned just as Left ungagged Sharkbait for the third time.

" _Okay_ ," he whined. "Okay."

Wrathion unfolded his arms to clap once. "Splendid!" he said, approaching once more. "Out with it, then—Helgen!"

Sharkbait struggled to compose himself, gasping to try and even out his breathing. Eventually, he came to speak at last. "I was... part of a security detail," he said, hesitating. "We were returning from Cyrodiil—the Imperial City. We had... business there."

He paused there, and Wrathion urged him on with a roll of his wrist. Sharkbait sighed.

"Helgen was supposed to be our last rest stop before home. But..." he shuddered, "the dragon came, and—" then cut himself short, taking a sharp breath. It took him a few moments to continue. "There was smoke... and blood... The sky was red, and there—there was so much fire, it's like... it's like it rained from the heavens... like the gods cried their wrath upon us..."

Wrathion rolled his head impatiently. "And the _dragon_?"

Sharkbait didn't seem to hear him. "Helgen was slaughtered. Civilians, burned alive, and my regiment was... and the..." He squeezed his eyes shut. "Divines, forgive me, I couldn't... I couldn't protect him."

Wrathion winced, straightening. "'Him'? Who's 'he'?"

Sharkbait only bowed his head, sadness overtaking him. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry..."

"Maybe a friend," Right offered. "Or his job."

Wrathion grunted, then snapped his fingers at Sharkbait, startling him. "Forget it. Tell me about the dragon."

He shuddered hard, meeting Wrathion's eyes only with the hope of the Dragonborn taking pity on him. "Don't make me recall that _thing_."

"I need to know everything about the dragon," Wrathion said, and perhaps it wasn't entirely cold. "Every detail. So let's get it over with."

Still, Sharkbait hesitated. Wrathion raised a hand to Left, readying her.

"Or—"

"No! I'll tell you."

He smirked and laid down his arm. "Talk."

Sharkbait shut his eyes for a moment, then finally spoke. "It was... it was a monster. Worse than anything you can imagine."

Wrathion doubted it.

"I don't even know how such a thing could exist, it... it had plates sealed to its flesh... there was lava spilling out of it..."

Yet his eyes glimmered some. Perhaps the gossip he'd heard hadn't been as distorted as he first thought? He'd never heard of dragons bleeding _lava_ , but then there were many things he still didn't know. Like those words of power in Valthume, he realized. He'd have to come back for those.

"It would have obliterated all of Helgen," Sharkbait went on, "if... if not for..."

Wrathion leaned closer. "Yes?"

"There... was a mage with us," he said, "from Winterhold. He was the expert instructor of Restoration magic at the college... They called him a prophet."

"Ah—Velen," Wrathion said. "I've heard of him." He squinted. Velen was with them? _What_ was Whiterun's business in the Imperial City?

Sharkbait nodded, unsteady. "He defended Helgen from the dragon... He gave his life to..." he paused, swallowing.

Wrathion frowned, and sighed. "How unfortuna—"

"To wound him," Sharkbait finished.

He furrowed his eyebrows. "Wait. Wound who?"

"The dragon—"

"How? Wound him how? What did he do?"

"I—I don't—"

" _What did he do_?"

"I don't _know_ , but—but whatever it was, the dragon didn't like it. Velen wounded it—badly, it seemed like."

Wrathion snarled. This was frustrating; what had a Restoration mage done that was apparently so effective? Was it even Restoration magic that he used? This soldier was useless!

"The dragon got..." Sharkbait swallowed. "It got angry, but I think it was afraid too."

Wrathion laughed, but he wasn't amused. "It  _wasn't_ afraid."

"But it fled," Sharkbait said. "And it took hostages. To stop Velen from attacking it further."

Again, Wrathion drew his eyebrows together. "Hostages?"

Sharkbait nodded. "Like myself, and..." He shook his head. "Anyway, it took us north after that."

"Where—"

"I don't know where," he snapped. "It was a mountaintop, though—there—there was some kind of temple. I don't remember much about it."

Wrathion opened his mouth to protest, but Sharkbait went on.

"But it was old," he offered. "And there was one room, with a big wall. I don't know what the language written on it was, but it was full of magic like... nothing I'd ever seen before."

Then, Wrathion grinned. A Word Wall! Well, that'd be the first bit of good news. If Deathwing was still there, perhaps he could slay him _and_ make up for his losses regarding Valthume. This was very good news.

"You said it took you as one of its hostages, yes?" Wrathion asked. Sharkbait nodded. "How did you escape? I can't imagine Right here broke you out and failed to tell me."

Sharkbait glanced at the agent in question. "No..." He cleared his throat. "My superior, Captain Taylor. He devised a plan to get everyone out, prioritizing the target of our mission."

Oh—that's right, Sharkbait was part of a security detail. "And who's that?"

Sharkbait clenched his jaw. Wrathion didn't miss that stubborn fire in his eyes. "We were calling him the White Pawn."

"But that isn't his _name_."

"As far as you're concerned, it is."

Wrathion clucked his tongue. Fine. He decided right then he didn't care anyway. "On with it, then—your captain's plan."

Sharkbait shut his eyes for a moment, breathing. "It went fine at first, but the dragon caught on, and Captain Taylor stayed to distract it. We still would've made it, but the White Pawn..."

Oh, good, their White Pawn was the _reckless hero_ type. What else had Wrathion expected?

Sharkbait struggled to continue, on the verge of apologizing to no one again. "We were so close... You have to understand, we were so close—I—I shouldn't have, but..."

Wrathion set his face in a slight frown. "You fled."

Sharkbait quivered. "I deserted my hold—I'm a traitor, practically, and they're all dead now... except for me."

Then he laid down his head and was back to weeping. Wrathion ground his teeth and glanced at Right, who could only shrug. She'd had to deal with it all the way back to Rorikstead, and she hadn't found a solution for it either. Wrathion rolled his eyes and decided changing the subject would just have to suffice.

"This temple you mentioned," he said. "You escaped, didn't you? So where is it?"

Sharkbait took a moment to calm down, before speaking under his breath. "I don't know..."

"You can't be serious—"

"I swear I don't know," he snarled. "I just ran—I don't even remember how I got off the mountain. I don't know where it is in relation to Helgen because—I was taken there by flight, and I was terrified—the same goes for Rorikstead. I don't know. I don't know."

Wrathion ground his teeth some more. Useless. "Fine," he said, and stood up, leaving him.

Sharkbait winced. "What are you going to do with me now?"

"Tonight, my agents will tend to your wounds," he said, rifling through his clothes. "And tomorrow, Right will be taking us back to where she found you. From there, we're going to find the mountaintop you came from."

Sharkbait paled. "You—you're taking me back there?"

"You're the only one that knows where this dragon is," Wrathion sighed. "So yes, I am. Unless you want him to level more villages."

"Who do you think you are?!"

"I told you." He turned to Sharkbait, grinning. "I'm Dragonborn." He held a small coin purse out to Right. "Buy up a room and some medicine. You have a long night ahead of you."

Right made a face. "Can't Left have a turn?"

Left grunted disapprovingly.

"Left would kill him," Wrathion said. "You probably won't."

She raised an eyebrow. "Wanna bet?"

Wrathion dropped the purse, and Right, begrudgingly, caught it. "Take care of it!" he snapped, striding away. "Left!"

Left glanced at Right, who pouted in response. The orc only rumbled, then turned to follow Wrathion. Right rolled her eyes and hoisted Sharkbait to his feet by the underarm, tailing behind them.

———Last Seed 24th———

A squadron of soldiers had been dispatched to Riverwood, a small village due south of Whiterun, as per King Varian's order. Since Helgen's fall nearing seven days ago, the dragon called Deathwing had not been heard from again. At least, not reliably. There'd been supposed sightings, but they all turned up false. Even so, Riverwood not only fell under Whiterun's hold, but it was just less than a day's walk from Helgen. So far, the only evidence anyone had to go on was that the dragon attacked a village; it wasn't farfetched to say it would again. So Varian coughed up the soldiers to have it defended.

Amber Kearnen was tasked with escorting the squadron to Riverwood, but that wasn't her only mission. A valued soldier for years, it was little surprise to her when the king requested she be part of the regiment sent to retrieve the 'Black Prince' and bring him to Whiterun. After all, no delicate information would slip by her.

"Ya suppose any Dragonborns would be 'round here?"

Her partner, however, was another story. Amber sighed.

"Sorry," she said flatly. "Who?"

Sully McLeary glanced up at her—way up, thanks to their steep contrast in height. It took him all of a few seconds before he startled and then gave a sheepish laugh. "Ah, I mean, any—"

"Don't."

"But—"

"Just stop."

Sully pouted, then shrugged. Amber rubbed her mouth, irritated, then eyed Riverwood. Supposedly, there were rumors that _the Black Prince_ , as he was codenamed, was recently sighted within the hold, but that information was at least three weeks old and somewhat pined for. He easily could've been in Falkreath, the Pale or even Eastmarch by now. Maybe farther—Amber didn't have any idea what kind of powers dragon blood gave someone. He could sprout wings for all she knew. All they really had going for them was the pretty secure assumption that wherever he was, it was in Skyrim. Rumors about a self-declared Dragonborn surfaced in Whiterun from time to time whenever the Black Prince happened to be in the area, and it'd been going on for years. It was unlikely he would disappear just when a dragon _actually_ reared its ugly head.

... Unless he was a coward as well as a fraud, that was. But that kind of put her mission at jeopardy, so she chose to dismiss that possibility for the time being.

"Do we even know what he looks like?" Sully piped up, scratching his beard loud enough to irritate Amber.

"There aren't a lot of redguards in Skyrim," she said. "Besides, according to one of the witness testimonies, he has some ridiculous getup. Can't be hard to miss."

Sully chuckled. "Well, if he makes it easy fer us."

"Right." Amber sighed. "I'm going to ask around. You can. Uh. Just, take a look around for anything out of the ordinary. And, try not to bring up any dragons."

Sully saluted. "Aye aye, boss!"

She winced again. "Okay." She turned to head into town, and somewhere behind her she heard Sully scamper off to surely cause more trouble. As long as he didn't use the word 'Dragonborn' again, she could deal with anything else. In any case, her hope was that someone in Riverwood might recognize word of the Black Prince. Since she was here, it was as good a place to start as any. She headed for the inn first; the Sleeping Giant, according to the sign. It was quiet inside, save for a seated bard strumming a lute—much different than the kind of commotion she was used to in Whiterun. Amber paid him no mind, instead approaching the counter on the far side of the inn. A man was polishing bottles.

"Pardon," Amber said. "You're the innkeeper?"

"Nope," the man said.

Amber crooked an eyebrow. "Then..."

"I'm just the barkeep," he said.

She paused, glanced around, then dismissed it. "Right. You gotten any tourists lately?"

"Can't say."

Amber pursed her lips. "Why not?"

"Don't know."

She was catching on. "Because... you're not the innkeeper?"

"You got it."

"Who is?"

"Farley," he said. "He's out."

"'Out'."

"That's right."

This was getting annoying.

"So what if I want a room?"

"Can't sell you one." He shrugged. "Sorry."

Amber glanced somewhere else. She tapped the counter with her open palm and turned away. "Thanks."

"Anytime."

She resisted the urge to scoff and headed back toward the door, but realized the bard's strumming had stopped. She glanced his way, and he quickly ducked his head, pretending he hadn't been staring. She made a face, but considered. Perhaps he'd be more helpful. She approached him.

"'Scuse me."

The bard glanced up, and immediately put on a warm face for her to mask his lingering alarm. "Ah, you're not from around here," he said, feigning further obliviousness.

"Sure ain't," she said. "Listen, you seen any travelers around here?"

"Just you," the bard said. "You lose something?"

"Not really." She glanced away for a moment, then back. "Anything interesting happen lately?"

He raised an eyebrow at her, smirking. "Those are some pretty vague questions."

"Maybe," she said, unfazed. "Or maybe I'm just used to people in Whiterun having a lot to talk about." He laughed then, and considered her earlier question. She caught the way his brow twitched. "That a yes?"

He eyed her, surprised, then smiled again. "I'm sure you already heard about Helgen, anyway. That what all the Whiterun helmets are doing here?"

"Probably," she said. She glanced away, eyeing around the inn. The bard wasn't much better than the barkeep, but at least he was friendly enough. And no one else was here. "There an ETA on your innkeeper?"

The bard's smile turned apologetic. "No, sorry. He runs errands kind of sporadically."

"Within the day?"

"Oh, probably not."

She crooked an eyebrow. He laughed once.

"Farley can disappear for days," he said. "Three weeks, once."

Great.

"Thanks for your time," she said, and even half-meant it as she turned toward the door.

"Actually—"

Amber stopped, glancing at the bard. He hesitated, fidgeting, and she made a face that hurried him along. He coughed.

"Earlier—I wasn't thinking about Helgen, exactly. Not entirely."

She figured as much. "Something else?"

He shifted. "They say it was a dragon."

"They do."

"Do you believe them?"

She pretended to think about it. "Don't know."

He paused, then laughed some. "You sound like Dobbins."

Amber winced, confused, then glanced at the barkeep and scowled. "Do you?" she asked the bard.

He frowned. "I... No."

"You don't sound so sure."

"I don't," he said. "My uncle does. But he..." He laughed again. "He'll believe anything."

Hm.

"Who're you looking for?" he asked.

She pursed her lips. "Someone."

The bard gave a cheeky smile. "Someone who can convince you?"

Amber frowned at him. "Why? You know a someone?"

"There was one person," he said. He shifted to adjust the strings of his lute. "A while back. Sounded like he came from Falkreath." He winced, looking confused. "Complained about a talking dog?"

Amber snorted. "Sounds like the sorta someone that'd tell you dragons were real."

"Well," the bard smirked at her, " _if_ you wanna be convinced, he said he was going to some place called uh... Falhume?"

She squinted. "Valthume?"

"That was it."

She shifted her jaw again, considering it. Valthume was a nordic tomb, as far as Amber knew. It sounded like the sort of place the Black Prince would spend his time, if Lady Katrana's insight held any water. Amber was fairly certain it was somewhere between Markarth and Rorikstead.

She smirked back at the bard. "Thanks, kid."

He looked pleased. "Matt."

She nodded. "Amber."

She turned and left after that, catching a 'good luck' as she slipped out. If the three-week old sighting of the Black Prince was accurate, then he easily could've been in the Reach by now. But she knew where he was going, or at least had a better idea. And, upon receiving the mission, Amber hadn't exactly thought it'd be easy.

"Kearnen!"

Amber looked forward, and from a bridge connecting the split halves of Riverwood came trundling Sully. Her eyebrows furrowed. Was that a fishing net tangled around him?

"What happened to you?" she nearly hissed.

Sully, however, didn't look so glum about it. In fact, he seemed enthused. "I found it!"

Her heart skipped a beat, but then she scowled. "'It'?" The Black Prince wasn't an 'it'.

"Drago _mmf_ —!!"

Amber raised her free hand—as in, the one not covering Sully's mouth—to shush him with a finger. "What'd I say."

Sully knitted his eyebrows, and though muffled, she made out his answer. 'No dragons'.

She let go of him. "What do you mean you found him?"

"Not him, it!" Sully whispered.

"What's 'it'?"

"Dra—" he snapped his mouth closed, huffed and flapped his arms, mimicking wing beats.

She scowled. "It's been missing for almost a week."

"Well, I didn't find it so much as I found a lead."

"'A lead'."

"The fisherman!" Sully said, gesturing back across the bridge. "I was scroungin' for clues, just like ya said, when I tripped and fell into his net. We started talkin', and he told me he saw it!"

Amber raised an eyebrow. "The...?"

"Aye!" Sully grinned. "Said it flew right over the south side of town way back when Helgen fell—right near the mountain! Told his nephew all about it. Didn't believe him, though."

Amber straightened, almost blurting the words out. The bard's uncle. "Where?"

Sully pointed up west, toward a huge peak rising up above Riverwood. "There! Says there's a big temple up there—riddled with bandits now. Gave me a name, too, uh..."

Amber recognized it. "Bleak Falls Barrow."

"Aye, that's it!"

Amber turned to glance over the streets, then whistled down a Whiterun guard. He came trotting over, and as soon as he was within shot, she snatched his tabard and drew him close. "I've got a task for you."

"Eh—yes, ma'am?"

"Return to Whiterun. Tell King Wrynn we might know where 'the Black Scourge' is."

The guardsman paled. "You mean—"

"We have codenames for a reason, soldier," Amber said. "Tell him I'm sending two scouts to check it out. He'll have a better report by three days."

He composed himself, nodding.

She pushed him off. "Move it."

He scrambled up the road. "Right away, ma'am!"

Amber watched for a moment, then scoffed and started in the same direction. "Let's go."

Sully glanced at her. "Are we—"

"No, not us," Amber said. "Our mission is the Prince, not the Scourge. I've got a lead of my own. You two!" She gestured at two other guards.

Sully rumbled, glancing at the westward mountain again. Something about it gave him chills, but he couldn't place it. Maybe it was the stone structure sticking up out of the rock faces like the exposed bones of a beast. Maybe it was just all the snow caking the peak. Whatever it was, Sully didn't like it, and he was pretty grateful he wouldn't be ascending it. He'd gladly take tracking Dragonborns any day.

"Where're we going?" he asked.

"West."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [dragon word translations for chapter 2](http://textuploader.com/4qig)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> you wouldn't actually believe how long i've agonized over this chapter since i first wrote it months ago. it just gives me this unending migraine, all because it was my very first time writing wrathion and i was basically killing myself trying to get it right-ish. so, i guess, if he's not quite up-to-snuff, i can at least pretty confidently say i got used to writing him very quickly?
> 
> and yes, [there's totally a talking dog in falkreath](http://www.uesp.net/wiki/Skyrim:Barbas). i encountered him for the first time no more than a day or two before writing this chapter, and spent way too long breaking character on the save i was playing because i was so MORBIDLY confused. (i'm also very naive and never seem to notice when daedra or [demons from the fade](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Mouse) are pulling the wool over my eyes, even when they make their evil-ness pretty blatantly obvious.)


	3. Ved Vingge Fundein

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **content warnings:** blood, vomit/emetophobia, death/dead bodies, dismemberment (bodies broken in half—not sure if there's a better word for it), creatures eating smaller creatures (???), mentions of gashes/burns, mention of animal death

Chapter 3: Ved Vingge Fundein  
"Black Wings Unfurled" 

———Last Seed 24th———

It was nearing the end of a full week since Helgen's fall, and Bolvar Fordragon still found the destruction hard to look at. In the flesh, the claim that this was done by a dragon was hard to dispute. Buildings were crushed in ways not even a giant's mammoth could manage, and the air lingered with a powerful, alien magic that made the hair on Bolvar's neck stand on end. The visible bodies had been carted out days ago, but the blood and soot still stained Helgen red and black. And his work was far from over; he couldn't see Whiterun's towering walls in his near future.

Then there was the most obvious concern: what had become of the dragon? Reports from witnesses claimed it had become aggravated and flew north. Some said it grabbed people before it retreated. Whiterun wasn't exactly close, but for a flying dragon, it couldn't have gone far without the city seeing it. Bolvar wasn't sure what to make of it. How did a dragon disappear into thin air? Then again, how did it _appear_ in the first place?

He hoped the thing couldn't teleport or something ridiculous like that. He had enough problems as it was. And based on the bewildered commotion to his right, they were mounting.

Bolvar looked to the chatter. It was two soldiers, both Whiterun's, standing over what _had_ been a execution block. Bolvar recalled when a man-sized axe, drenched red, had been hauled out of the wreckage days ago. He hadn't thought much of it—Helgen was, after all, a military settlement. Arrests and consequential executions hardly seemed noteworthy to him. Apparently, the soldiers talking over the block disagreed.

"Something wrong?" he called to them, startling both.

"Oh—" the nord on the left stammered, glancing between Bolvar and the ground. "Nothing, Highlord."

"'Nothing'?" the redguard beside him said with a sharp look.

"Well, _not_ nothing," the first soldier said, "but it's probably not important."

Bolvar approached the pair. "What is it?"

The nord fidgeted, which only served to annoy his colleague further. "Here," the latter said, gesturing at the cobblestones near the block. "We found hair."

Bolvar squinted. "Hair?"

"Dog hair," the nord said. "We just thought it was odd, because, well. No dogs."

"Unless it escaped," Bolvar said.

"Well," the redguard sighed. "Maybe."

"Don't lose your heads," Bolvar said. "Not everything's out of the ordinary."

The redguard scoffed. "Sure feels like it."

"Ooh," the nord piped up, moving away from the both of them.

"Now what?" his partner hissed, as the nord bent down.

Bolvar could see passed the soldier's leg and noted what he'd found—a square of red cloth. Aside from soot and a tear in the material, it looked intact. The nord went to pick it up with two fingers, but upon touching it, the cloth caught fire.

"Whoa—" he gasped, attempting to move back and falling on his rear for the trouble.

It burned away almost instantly, like a cloud of gas. All it left behind was the smell of singed fabric. The nord got back on his feet, dusting off his armor as he stared at what little ash remained of the cloth.

"What the..."

"An enchantment?" Bolvar guessed.

"Something," the nord agreed. He frowned at the remains of the fabric.

"Come to think of it," the redguard started, cupping his chin in thought. He'd lost the aggravated tone, consumed in confusion instead. "I thought I heard something about red cloth recently."

"Really?" The nord seemed unconvinced. "That's convenient."

"Yeah," the redguard answered. He didn't actually hear the other soldier. "I think it was..."

"Highlord Fordragon?"

Bolvar glanced over his shoulder, spotting a shrimpy Falkreath footman trotting up to him. "Yes?"

The footman gestured behind him with a thumb. "Couple of soldiers think they found something, asked me to come get you."

Bolvar nodded. "Thank you." The footman saluted and hurried off elsewhere. Bolvar glanced back at the pair he'd been talking to. "If you think of it, let me know."

"Aye," the redguard answered.

With that taken care of, Bolvar trudged through the wrecked city, keeping an eye out for the soldiers mentioned by the footman. He spotted a steel-clad hand flagging him down and approached. Two guards, one Whiterun's and one Falkreath's, were stationed by a narrow passage, where the walls on either side of the street had collapsed into one another. The one that had flagged him, a nord girl in armor that matched Bolvar's, turned to say something to her knelt partner as the highlord arrived.

"What did you find?" he asked.

The knelt soldier, Falkreath's, gestured at the cobblestone road underneath him. "Take a look at this."

Bolvar crouched, squinting at the road. There was a heavy trail of deep blue blood, smeared in a way that suggested someone was dragged. Based on the irregular pauses in the trail, Bolvar assumed the victim must have been hauling themselves. Bolvar looked closer and felt it: a trace of magic. Almost like tiny glimmers of light intertwined with the blood.

"Restoration magic," he whispered aloud.

"That's what I thought," the woman said. "And not many people around here bleed blue. Do you think it's Prophet Velen's?"

"Maybe," her partner answered. "And maybe your prince is with him... He'd protect his student, wouldn't he?"

With his life, Bolvar knew. Velen was irrefutably fond of his apprentice, having given months of his life to help the prince study in Cyrodiil. The highlord too a breath to compose himself, but the thought of Velen escaping with the White Pawn dizzied him with hope still.

Bolvar stood, startling them both. "With me," he said, ducking under the walls.

The two soldiers followed him. On the other side was just more chaos—blood and some bodies the cleanup crew had missed. Not that Bolvar was surprised; no matter how thorough they were, more and more corpses seemed to crop up to replace the old ones. It was truly a living nightmare in Helgen. Bolvar dismissed it for now, focusing on the magic-sprinkled trail. It went on for a surprising ways, given just how much blood there'd been. Velen must have been healing himself as he went on. It explained why his blood was laced with the magic. Eventually, on the edge of town where the ruckus of Whiterun and Falkreath soldiers was distant, the trail stopped at the ajar door of a broken house. Bolvar gestured, and the two soldiers behind him pressed up on either side of the door. A few more hand signals to each other and they opened it, slipping in to investigate.

Bolvar followed after them, but he kept on the trail while they cleared. It traveled through the front room and began to lighten at last. The second floor was caved in on itself, forcing Bolvar to travel through more narrow passages, but he didn't find more silence on the other side. A small bolt of fire zipped passed him, and Bolvar didn't have time to consider if it'd meant to or not. He gripped the sheathed sword on his hip, but his eyes spotted the caster before he drew. Perched on the far wall was a man of alabaster skin and light woolen robes. He recognized Bolvar before he could release the second ember in his left hand.

"Highlord," he croaked.

"Prophet!" Bolvar said, hurrying to him.

Bolvar made quick work of checking Velen's condition. He was hurt, badly, but the only evidence Bolvar needed to tell as much was that Velen hadn't appeared in the seven days soldiers had been scouring Helgen for survivors. His robes were stained in his blood, and upon closer inspection, Bolvar noted deep gashes in the prophet's chest, abdomen and back, as well as severe damage to his left leg and burns up his right arm. Velen couldn't move either damaged limb. He couldn't move much at all.

Bolvar could only ache at the sight. "By the Nine," he whispered.

"Anduin..."

The highlord looked up at him, but frowned. "He isn't with you?"

He saw Velen's eyes darken sorrowfully. "I'd hoped..."

Bolvar braced his face, focusing on Velen's wounds. He couldn't afford to wonder about the prince's fate right that moment. He breathed in, and at his elbows, tiny streams of light crawled forth, curling down his arms in shiny, smoky ribbons until they swirled in the palms of his hands. He set them over Velen's collapsed torso, and earned a shuddered, relieved sigh from the prophet. Bolvar's Restoration magic was by no means half as strong as Velen's, but it would have to do.

"What can you tell me, Prophet?" he asked.

Velen closed his eyes and thought for a moment. "It happened so fast... You wouldn't believe what I saw—"

"A dragon," Bolvar said, and received a wide-eyed glance. "I know."

Velen eased again. "He appeared from nowhere, it seemed... I tried to defeat him, but I could only injure him before he fled..."

"Did you see where it'd gone?" Bolvar asked.

"North," the prophet said. "I heard screams fade away, as if he had taken people..."

He breathed deeply, pained, and Bolvar frowned. "Rest, Prophet," he said. "There will be time to discuss it more once you've healed."

Velen groaned, but made no further attempts to speak. Bolvar turned at the sound of shifting rubble and saw the Whiterun woman he'd come with crawling in. She gapped at the prophet's state.

"You found him—"

"Fetch more soldiers," Bolvar said. "We need to get him back to Whiterun immediately."

She nodded and turned to go. Velen breathed in, ragged-sounding, and Bolvar turned his attention to the prophet again.

"Please, I told you to—"

"Anduin," he said, weak in his voice.

Bolvar winced. "How do you remember him looking last? Was he hurt?"

"I don't know," Velen said, regretfully. "But he lives..."

The highlord tensed. "What? How can you be sure—"

"I sense it," Velen coughed, his voice starting to fail altogether. "I can feel his presence here still... It is faint, but..."

Bolvar could only barely resist grinning. "Once you've healed, do you think..."

Velen knew what he was asking. "Perhaps... I can help you find him..."

Bolvar nodded, grateful. "Thank you, Prophet. Bless you." He laughed, softly, then tried to compose himself but found his smile breaking through anyway. "Now rest, please."

———Last Seed 24th———

The frigid wind cutting through the Bleak Falls Barrow whistled almost perpetually, an eerie sound that put a whole different chill down Malakai Stone's back. He shuddered and peered ahead at the skeletal structure of the barrow, poking out of the snow like bones from a half-eaten carcass. The whole peak made Malakai's skin crawl, but he and Rolf Hartford had orders straight from Amber Kearnen. The orders, somehow, remained the most bone-chilling part.

"Maybe we should hunker down for the night and go back to Riverwood tomorrow morning," he said, staring upon the soulless barrow.

Rolf's teeth chattered as he answered. "Come on, you know we can't do that."

"Sure we can," Malakai barked. "Does this frozen crypt look like a pleasant lair for a dragon?"

"No," Rolf admitted, "but that doesn't mean it's not here. And if it is, and we go back and tell Kearnen it's _not_ , who'll have our heads then?"

"Not the dragon, at least," Malakai mumbled. Rolf hit him in the arm.

"We're going," he snapped. "And if we don't find anything, we'll head back."

Malakai groaned. Rolf set off ahead of him, and begrudgingly, Malakai pursued. "At least we'll get out of this wind once we're inside."

"Yeah, and maybe into a huff of fire," Rolf joked.

"You're not helping!"

The pair ascended the black and snow-spotted stairs leading up to the entrance of the barrow; a huge, hollow archway. Malakai supposed a dragon could squeeze inside. Rolf squinted into the darkness, but the setting sun made it too bright and his eyes wouldn't adjust to the solid black before him.

"We'll have to go in before we can see," he said.

"You first," Malakai grumbled.

Rolf rolled his eyes. "You keep this up and I'll make sure I'm credited when we get back."

Malakai shrugged. "I just want to _get_ back."

"Get in here," Rolf hissed and dragged Malakai after him by his arm.

As they'd expected, it was warmer within. The wind, though shrieking, was distant and couldn't reach them in the mouth of the barrow. Inside, the ceiling was taller even than the archway itself, though the floor was littered with rubble. Some of the pillars holding the great ceiling were damaged or even missing entirely. Lost chunks from the ceiling, now resting on the floor, allowed retreating sunlight to spill into the first chamber, lighting it just enough for Rolf and Malakai to navigate the cluttered space. There was no sign of any dragons, so with a gesture, Rolf led Malakai forward. Four steps in and there was a sudden clattering across the floor. Rolf yelped, but Malakai only jumped.

"Sorry," he blurted. "I kicked a rock."

"By the _Eight_ ," Rolf said.

"What the..."

Rolf glanced at him, and followed his eyes to the floor. Immediately, he saw what his comrade did: rocks, but not like the rest of the silvery rubble around them. Rolf knelt down and grabbed one, turning it over in his hand. It was flat on one side, bowl-shaped, like a droplet frozen in place, and blacker than coals. It was heavy and grooved in his hand, and no matter what way he turned it, he couldn't make sense of it being in this place. And there were several of them, scattered in a vague pattern—a trail, almost. Like solid drops of blood, and warm to the touch.

"What is it?" Malakai asked.

"Hell if I know," Rolf said and set it on the floor. "Forget it. We're looking for dragons, not rocks."

"I don't like this," Malakai said.

"Yes, I got that—"

"Rolf, I _don't_ like this."

Rolf sighed. "Look, we'll be out of here soon. Just keep your head on."

Malakai pouted. Rolf didn't see, instead moving deeper into the barrow. There didn't seem like many places for a dragon to go, especially one described to be as large as the ominously-dubbed Deathwing. The entrance chamber was big, but not big enough that the pair couldn't split up to cover the room quicker. Rolf took the left-hand side and Malakai took the right. Even though it was warmer within the barrow, the screaming winds outside continued to make Malakai shiver. But there was no sign of any dragons. The only unusual thing were those strange black stones, which still made Malakai nervous, but he couldn't place why.

There was another clatter, lighter this time, and followed by a guttural wail. It was Malakai's turn to yelp, whirling around to look for his partner.

"Rolf?" he whispered. "Rolf, is that you?"

Rolf didn't quite answer. Malakai only heard his voice as whimpers carried by echoes, but that didn't help the footman place where his friend was.

"Rolf," Malakai hissed, scouring the chamber still. "Answer me—where are you?"

"Here," Rolf sputtered at last.

Malakai spun and spotted the soldier, on his rear, shuffled away from something that must've been utterly repulsive, based on the green color of his face. Malakai scrambled over, kneeling at Rolf's right and clapping his shoulder.

"What happened?" he said. "What did you—"

Rolf pointed, and Malakai looked. The same sick expression claimed his own face at the sight of bones—some scattered by Rolf's earlier kick—sticky with rotting, stringy flesh. There appeared to be three bodies there, two tangled with rotted leather armor, and one with a blue-and-gold tabard tainted deep red. Whiterun colors.

"Oh, gods," Malakai moaned. " _Gods_ —"

Rolf, at least, was coming around from his shock. He shifted, slipping from Malakai's grip, and crept back to the remains. The one corpse was definitely a Whiterun soldier—the tabard and damaged steel was evidence enough—and it looked as though it'd been like this for at least a week, which just so happened to be as long as the dragon had been missing. The body was broken in half at the base of the spine, picked apart further by razor cuts bigger than axe heads. _Dragon teeth?_ Rolf wondered.

Behind him, he heard the sound of retching followed by a repulsive splashing noise. Accompanied with the sight of the corpses, Rolf nearly misplaced his own lunch, but managed instead to grimace deeply.

" _Gods_ , Malakai," he groaned sickly. Malakai could only choke in response.

Something shook the chamber. Rolf felt the floor shudder and watched as streams of dust rained down from the high ceiling. The soldiers froze, blood icy, and watched the barrow steady again. Something deep and ancient filled the air, colorless, but it tainted the room with a sinful warmth and the stench of curdling flesh. Eventually, from the depths of the earth itself, they heard a rumbling breath.

Malakai hacked on a scream and scrambled to his feet. The sound of tiny rocks scattering under his boots stirred Rolf and he tried to snatch the other footman's tabard, but missed.

"Malakai!" he snapped.

Malakai didn't listen, bolting back toward the archway and howling wind only to meet, instead, a massive, scaled paw that fell from out of his sight. Its descent shook the chamber again, and Malakai staggered backwards. By impulse his gaze shot up, and he only met evil eyes for half a second. Then, a jaw's worth of bladed teeth opened up before him and shot through the scattered darkness. The jaws clamped around his waist, shattering his midsection without the faintest effort. Rolf barely heard his friend's cut off scream over the sound of bones and flesh bursting.

He stared, wide-eyed, as an enormous, impossible creature stood just yards away. The dragon threw back its head and opened its maw wide, sweeping what was left of Malakai into its mouth, then more ugly crunching ensued. Rolf flinched at every bite, his mind racing yet jarringly silent. Finally, the dragon _harrumphed_ and spat Malakai's blood, breastplate and a clinging scrap of his tabard out, which clattered wetly across the chamber floor. Rolf didn't see where the last remnants of his friend rolled away to, transfixed instead on the dragon.

It was just as the survivors at Helgen had described. Massive, hardly able to fit through the archway into the barrow, with deep black scales and piercing orange-red eyes. Its hide was broken in places, like split seams, and between the gashes oozed bubbling lava. Rolf watched some of the fiery substance drip from the dragon's body and pool on the floor as thick round disks. _The stones,_ he realized. They were dried molten rock.

The dragon's eyes fell upon him, and Rolf's body felt scalded by the stare. Since it stood in the way of the entrance he scrambled back, deeper into the barrow, but tripped and fell on his rear for the second time. The dragon rumbled low and stalked closer, eyes flaring. Rolf hiccupped—a pitiful sound—and continued to carry himself by his hands and feet back and back. He fumbled for the sword at his hip, but what good would it do? The steel plates, identical to what the survivors had described, were too thick to cut through, and Rolf was certain the dragon's hide was just the same.

A sharp but not inherently evil light caught his eye, making him wince. He searched for it again and found it—there, in the dragon's chest. Some kind of cut, glowing a brilliant white-gold color. What _was_ that?

A force hit his back and he cried out, startled. He'd met a wall. Whimpering, he found the dragon again, only making progress toward him, and he tried to hurry to his feet and flee to the right. The dragon's claw struck out and swiped him, hurling him across the jagged stone floor. Bruises bloomed across him, even through his armor, and his body was slow to respond to anything but his whining. He couldn't stop the dragon from smashing him under its paw, cracking bones under the weight. Magma oozed down the beast's foreleg, dangerously close to Rolf, its heat alone singing his skin and sweating his plate.

The dragon lifted its head, analyzing Rolf for a moment. Rolf struggled under its paw, but found no relief from the weight or heat. Its teeth dripped with Malakai's blood, falling all around Rolf's face.

"P-please," he wheezed, ribs hurting.

The dragon crooked its head and made some noises Rolf didn't know how to describe. But it sounded amused, vaguely, and that made Rolf's blood turn cold. Did it understand him?

"Don't do this," he said, perhaps hopeful—he wasn't sure. "I'll go, I won't tell a soul! Please—"

That time, the dragon laughed. Rolf was certain it was a laugh. Then it sighed, almost bored, and Rolf lost his words underneath frantic sobs.

Then, the dragon made just one sound.

"Nikriin."

Rolf fell silent. Did... did it just speak?

" **Yol** ," came another sound—a word.

Its mouth opened, and chaotic light blossomed in the depths of the dragon's throat. Rolf's eyes went wide and he flailed under the monster's claw.

"Please—!"

" **Toor Shul**!"

The last thing he saw were waves of fire.

———Last Seed 30th———

"I'm tired."

The Dragonborn's complaints were never lost upon his agents, though at times Left and Right both wished they were. Despite how frequently Wrathion flaunted his gold to get his way, he didn't have the means to purchase a horse, let alone maintain it. So he walked, everywhere, and he _loathed_ it. He once considered making the Blacktalons deal with it, but Right, though strong, couldn't carry him for long stretches of time. Left could, but when he suggested it, she rumbled from the pit of her stomach and he dared not bring it up again. So he walked. Everywhere.

And he loathed it.

"How much longer until Dawnstar?" he complained, side-eyeing the distant plains of central Whiterun Hold. He had foregone his confident posture and purposeful stride. Now, he was just dragging onward, craning his head along whichever shoulder convenienced him at the time. It was shameful, really, but he was passed the threshold where that concern meant anything.

Dawnstar being the final destination in Wrathion's current plan. Sharkbait, who Left was much more willing to carry due to his incapacitating injuries, had mentioned the dragon flew north from Helgen. Wrathion hoped that if he searched the stretch of land north of the destroyed village, Sharkbait would spy something familiar or perhaps they would simply encounter the dragon out of the blue. Wrathion was fine with either. Sharkbait had mentioned a Word Wall as well, but the Dragonborn was much more interested in meeting Deathwing in the flesh.

And slaying him, of course.

Right fished a map out of her satchel, tracing a route with her finger. "Weeks," she said, answering his question. "Three. Maybe closer to four."

Wrathion rolled his head, groaning. It'd already been a week since they left Rorikstead; he was _tired_. And the last traces of the sun had all but disappeared—it was practically dark now! He couldn't take much more of this. He stopped, huffing, and took a more careful look at his surroundings.

"Where are we?" he spat impatiently as he scoured.

"There's a—" Right started, but Wrathion straightened, grinning.

"A fort!" he said first, pointing at the silhouette of the structure on the horizon.

Right knew what he was going to ask next and handled it. "Fort Graymoor," she said. "It's maybe a day's walk from Whiterun."

"Magnificent!" Wrathion beamed. He was nearly due north of Helgen, then. Well within the range to spy any hulking dragons. "Keep your eyes peeled, both of you—though I can't imagine anyone could miss a dragon. We'll rest in Fort Graymoor. I'm sick of camping."

Left growled, and when Wrathion looked, he saw Sharkbait shifting purposefully on her shoulder.

"The fort," he offered. "It's been overrun by bandits. They'll stick your head on a pike if you get close."

Wrathion snorted. How annoying. "Fine," he said, waving his hand toward the fort. "Left, Right, go take care of them. I'll stay here with our friend."

Left grunted. Right tilted her head. "You sure about that?"

"I'm sure that, while I love Skyrim, I'll not spend tonight on her frigid floor," Wrathion said. "Hurry up, I told you I'm tired!"

Left and Right exchanged a glance. Right shrugged and started to leave. Left slid Sharkbait into the crook of her elbow and sat him on a nearby stone—he was bound tight and couldn't go far in his condition anyway—then accompanied Right.

Wrathion rubbed his hands together, pleased with the appearance of the fort. And if bandits were dwelling within, there was sure to be food and perhaps something to drink besides cured stream water. Yes, what a lucky find Graymoor was. He spun toward Sharkbait, grinning. The soldier wasn't looking at him, instead eyeing the distant, foggy shape of Whiterun to the east.

"You'll see your city again, guardsman," Wrathion chimed. "Just as soon as I've no further use for you."

Sharkbait glanced at him, glaring. Though he was still unable to walk more than a few steps at a time, his wounds had recovered significantly. To Right's gratitude, he'd mostly stopped whining. Most of his conversation now was chiding the Dragonborn or interrogating him—and Wrathion knew it was interrogation, though Sharkbait insisted it was curiosity or friendly chitchat.

"You're a fool."

Speaking of chiding.

Wrathion's grin only grew. "This again?"

"You underestimate that dragon," Sharkbait said. "You don't know what you're asking for."

"Oh, I'm quite sure I do," Wrathion said. "Your concern is appreciated and duly discarded. I've no need for it."

"Do you hear yourself?" he snarled. "Do you see what it did to me? What it did to—"

"Your White Pawn?" Wrathion raised an eyebrow, tilting his head.

Sharkbait lurched forward, and all Wrathion had to do was step hard on his foot to make him yelp and seat himself again.

"I'm no ordinary mortal. Not like you and your Pawn," he said absentmindedly, now watching his hands rub back and forth. He sniffed, which hurt his healing nose. "The only thing you should be worrying about is how you can convenience me."

Sharkbait was quiet for a moment, shaking his head. "That monster will kill you and your guards."

Wrathion smirked at his idling hands. "I doubt it. But now that you mention it,"

He stepped closer, eyeing Sharkbait with a certain fire in his eye that made the soldier's throat close. He stopped right in front of him, close enough to stand between Sharkbait's parted knees, and he looked down at him, contemplating something. It made Sharkbait sweat even in Skyrim's cold. Wrathion opened his mouth, purposefully, and Sharkbait sucked in a breath.

But after a moment, the Dragonborn closed it and turned away, rubbing his hands again. "No," he said simply.

Sharkbait shuddered, relaxing. "'No' what?"

"No, not yet," he said. "I want to surprise you."

"'Surprise me'?"

"With my power." He faced Sharkbait again, grinning almost fervently. "I want to blow you away, guardsman, but it'll be a much better show in the throes of battle with that _monster_ you fear so."

Sharkbait laughed, once, but he wasn't amused. "You think you have some kind of _magic_ that'll take that thing out?"

"Not think," Wrathion said, raising a finger. "I _know_."

The soldier scoffed, looking away. Wrathion hummed, pleased anyway. He knew he was right. Soon, so would the guardsman, and he'd go running back to his hold and tell them all about his impossible encounter with Deathwing and the Dragonborn. Wrathion could hardly—

"Wait."

Wrathion glanced at him, wincing. "What're you mumbling about now?"

But something was off about Sharkbait. He was staring at Wrathion—or rather, through him. His face was the same orangey-red that the white rocks were, suggesting a severe paleness to his skin under the setting sun, one that wasn't there before. Wrathion faced him fully, leaning closer, trying to discern the reason for the change from where he was standing, but he couldn't and it was frustrating.

" _What_ , nord?" he hissed.

Sharkbait stammered soundlessly, then finally, gestured with his bound hands. "There—that's..."

Wrathion, impatient, whirled around to search for the soldier's answer, but he couldn't quite find it. There was just plains and fields and patches of snow, and beyond that, rocky hills that grew and grew into frosted peaks, and he didn't—

Oh.

He realized it the same moment Sharkbait spoke.

"That's the mountain."

Wrathion grinned. He turned back to Sharkbait, practically bursting at his seams he was so excited. "You're sure?"

"Y-yes," Sharkbait stammered.

"You're absolutely positive?"

"Yes!"

"LEFT!" Wrathion screamed toward the fort. "RIGHT!"

He started pacing, suddenly brimming with far too much energy to feel the ache in his legs or the bite of the frigid air. He didn't care if he had to sleep in the dirt again, he needed to reach the mountain as soon as possible, and that meant forgoing the rest-stop in Graymoor in favor of putting down more travel hours. He was close, he could _taste_ it, and he was not about to let that dragon slip through his fingers now.

"Please," Sharkbait piped up, putting an instant damper on Wrathion's delight. "Magic or not, you don't know what you're—"

"Shut up," he growled. "I've had enough of you for now. You'll see soon enough. LEFT!" he snapped, utterly impatient. "RIGHT!"

"Take it from me," Sharkbait went on anyway. "Velen couldn't take that thing down—"

" _Velen_ was a Restoration mage," Wrathion scoffed, unimpressed. "What do you expect from a wizard that practices healing?" Useless.

"Fine, but neither could Captain Taylor," Sharkbait said. "And the White Pawn—"

"Your high regard for your precious White Pawn is admirable," Wrathion droned, "but frankly, if he and I met in battle, I would win."

Sharkbait sputtered. "You—"

"LEFT!" Wrathion shouted so hard his voice strained. "RI—"

He stopped, spotting something in the road. Travelers? No, they sported tabards. Wrathion squinted, trying to make out the colors through the washed out twilight. Blue and... Green? No, gold—

"Ah, more Whiterun dogs," Wrathion chimed. "Perhaps you'll be going home sooner than I—"

Something wrapped around Wrathion's neck and pulled back hard enough that he choked and staggered. He felt chain mail against his jawline—Sharkbait's bound arms, looped around his head with his binds at the lump in Wrathion's throat. He snarled and lurched forward, but Sharkbait held him steady.

"You idiot," Wrathion growled. "What're you—"

"Here!" Sharkbait yelled over him, to the other soldiers, now approaching briskly. "Over here, please!"

"By the Nine!" the shorter man, sporting a beige beard, said as he looked the scene over.

"McLeary!" Sharkbait said, relieved. He recognized them. "And Kearnen!"

The other soldier, a woman with black hair who Wrathion assumed was Kearnen, set a hand over the cluster of feathered arrows in the quiver on her right hip. "What's going on here?"

Wrathion put on a pleasant smile, raising his hands. "Before you get the wrong id—" But Sharkbait yanked back, choking him again. He growled, gripping the soldier's arms, but he couldn't get him off from his angle.

"I'm from Whiterun!" Sharkbait snapped. "I was at Helgen!"

The two soldiers exchanged a glance, then met Sharkbait again. Kearnen looked over his clothes and confirmed the colors, to Wrathion's frustration. They would, of course, side with their own.

"And who's your friend?" the shorter one, who must've been McLeary, piped up.

"He's been holding me hostage," Sharkbait said. "He's forcing me to help him find the dragon—you know what happened to Helgen by now, don't you?"

Kearnen nodded. "Sure do. He's looking for the dragon?"

"Yes! He says he's ' _Dragonborn_ ', whatever in Oblivion that means!"

The two soldiers straightened, eyeing each other again. Wrathion squinted. They recognized the title. Perhaps—

"I think he's one of those old dragon cultists," Sharkbait hissed. "He can hardly shut up about it, and he's so fascinated by that monster—"

"Are you hearing yourself?" Wrathion snapped. "I've been telling you I'm going to _kill him_ this whole time!"

"You said he's kidnapped you?" Kearnen said.

"Yes!" Sharkbait said. "And tortured me!"

"Oh, stop," Wrathion groaned. "It was a little tweak of the wrist!"

"It's _broken_!"

"Well—" Wrathion struggled, "—a _big_ tweak, then!"

Kearnen smirked a bit, then shrugged. "That makes this easy."

Wrathion grimaced. Made _what_ easy? Kearnen approached around Wrathion's side and swiped a strip of cloth out from a pocket in her leather armor. She handed it to McLeary, who knew what to do with it. Wrathion assumed at first it was for his hands.

"You're under arrest," Kearnen said.

The back of Wrathion's throat clucked, his chest rising indignantly. The urge to snap at her was there, but he restrained it, forcing his face to contort into a smile. "Now, don't be so—"

"Kneel him," she interrupted, gesturing at Sharkbait.

Sharkbait obeyed, albeit rudely, as he kicked Wrathion in the back of his knee and forced him down with a snarl. McLeary approached head-on and Wrathion only scoffed, amused. If they'd recognized his title, they clearly didn't know what it meant. He took a breath to speak. He felt the power swell in his chest, swirling inhuman magic that stirred in his blood from the dawn of his life. He grinned, nearly wicked, and began to Shout.

" **Zu** — _ah_!"

A sharp pain surged from the back of his neck and spread through him like fire. He saw stars, but still managed to make out Kearnen standing to his left, her hand open and flat like a dull blade whose edge matched the initial shape of the blunt pain in his neck. She'd struck him. He coughed, hurting—then McLeary shoved the strip of cloth into his mouth and secured it around the back of his head. It was only then he realized it was a gag, not binds for his wrists. How naive of him; they had recognized the word 'Dragonborn'. Of course they knew what that entailed.

But why did they _believe_ him?

"Nice try," Kearnen said. Wrathion glowered at her. She looked up at Sharkbait. "You all right?"

"Yes, now," Sharkbait sighed.

"Good," she said, then nodded at McLeary. "Sully, take care of him."

He saluted. "Aye!"

Kearnen looped Wrathion's arm in hers, dragging him to his feet despite the residual ache in the back of his knee. She twisted him to bind his wrists behind his back. Wrathion hissed, but he couldn't Shout with this gag in his mouth and Kearnen must've known it. But it meant she took his claim of being Dragonborn seriously—why? She didn't have any more reason than anyone else, did she? He would be lying if he said he wasn't intrigued, but it hardly negated his frustration of being tied up like a wild animal.

"Good work, soldier," Kearnen said, probably to Sharkbait.

Sharkbait sighed, nodding. "Thank you. Who is he? You seem to know him."

"Oh," Kearnen said, pausing. "Just a little project. Don't worry about it."

Wrathion craned his head over his shoulder. ' _Project_ '?

She spotted him and smirked, patting his shoulder hard. "Let's go. It's a long walk to Whiterun."

He forgot himself and tried to complain, but his words were lost in a tangle of cloth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [dragon translations for chapter 3](http://textuploader.com/4qvf)
> 
> alternate title: the first of very many times whiterun will annoy the hell out of wrathion. (diist do rinik pogaan tidde ahrolsedovah fen motag volok tir do wrathion.)
> 
> maybe don't send your highly qualified bodyguards off just before a Plot Thing is about to happen, wrathion, jeez. also consider not dragging injured, traumatized soldiers all over the hold looking for the thing that, you know, injured and traumatized them. just a thought.
> 
> now feels like a fun time to point out that _all_ named characters are wowcraft NPCs. 8) rip in peace [malakai](http://wow.gamepedia.com/Malakai_Stone) and [rolf](http://wow.gamepedia.com/Rolf_Hartford). at least u got more character development in this fic than canon. you're welcome.


	4. Faal Sot Malun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **content warnings:** death/(un)dead bodies, blood, burns, gashes/bruises mentions, misgendering* (once), slight torture mention

Chapter 4: Faal Sot Malun  
"The White Pawn"

———Last Seed 31st———

Wrathion was not happy.

First, Amber Kearnen had the audacity to whip him like a dog and tie him up like one too, then after a restless march back to Whiterun, in which he'd desperately craved even a wink of sleep, she'd had him chucked into a cell beneath Dragonsreach. He scoffed; what an arrogant name for a palace full of nords who didn't even _remember_ dragons. Apparently it was named after some folktale. Something about a dragon head in the throne room, not that Wrathion cared. Now he was stuck here, sitting on a bench chained to the wall with only the short and stout soldier from earlier to keep him company—Sully McLeary, he recalled. Sharkbait had been shipped off to the Temple of Kynareth to have his wounds tended to, or so Wrathion had overheard as he was dragged into this stinking dungeon. He also believed he'd caught the guardsman's real name, but he instantly dismissed it out of spite. This was _his_ fault, after all.

He couldn't do much, bound and gagged as he was. Couldn't even strike up a decent conversation with the pest outside. It only made his mood worse. Apparently they were going to keep him here for his ' _crimes_ ' against Whiterun, but frankly Wrathion thought that was abhorrent. Were they out of their minds? Amber clearly knew who he was— _what_ he was—and Sully here seemed to know it too. So why was he here, in the bottom of a jail, while a dragon rampaged around Skyrim unchallenged? He'd be lucky if Left and Right tracked him down anytime soon; he wasn't sure how obvious Whiterun's trail was. It could've been days, even weeks rotting away while Skyrim burned.

And he couldn't muster a word to the soldier outside thanks to his gag. He ground away at it between his teeth. Idiots!

"You okay in there, Dragonborn?"

Wrathion's eyes shot up, and he didn't bother hiding any malice. Sully just chuckled.

"Be patient, aye?" he said. "Kearnen will be back soon, I promise."

Wrathion rolled his eyes and leaned against the cold stone wall behind him. It was difficult to, since his hands were bound at his back, but his body ached from the walk. It'd taken nearly all night. He was sure sunrise would be any moment, if it hadn't dawned already.

Still, there was some promise in the soldier's words. Apparently, Amber was coming back for him, so perhaps she had _some_ inkling of the urgency at hand. Not enough, if he were asked, but it was an improvement over withering away in this dank cell.

"Not very talkative, are you?"

Wrathion spared him another scowl, who seemed pleased with the joke. He wished he'd just been a little faster at disarming the soldier with his Shout earlier.

Distantly, there was a heavy clatter that Wrathion recognized as the entrance. Sully straightened, looking that way, but Wrathion only listened. There was some distorted chatter and then footsteps, and soon enough, Amber reappeared before the Dragonborn, unlocking his cell.

"You happen to catch any shuteye while you waited?" she asked.

He couldn't decide if she was being genuine or not, so he decided she wasn't and scoffed somewhat effectively beneath his gag. Amber smirked and stepped inside, hoisting Wrathion to his feet with another growl. She found him to be much too fussy. She led him out of the cell, tugging him hard the two times he attempted to walk on his own. He submitted, begrudgingly, as they traveled through the jail.

Despite being gagged, he tried to ask her where she was taking him now. She squinted, but she seemed to work it out.

"You've earned an audience with some important folks," she answered.

An audience, huh? He couldn't imagine who would be so dense as to lock their guest up the way Dragonsreach had. He hoped they'd remove his gag so he could tell them so; it was absurd the way they were treating him. Him! The Dragonborn! The nerve of it all made his blood hot.

They didn't leave the jail, but he was taken to a place away from the rest of the cells. Perhaps to keep the other prisoners from eavesdropping. This room was significantly nicer, and as soon as he saw who was standing within it, he knew why. There were two people—not to mention a handful of guards—a woman in mage robes and a taller man with blue-gray plate and unmistakable scars. Wrathion wasn't without his research of Skyrim's royal families. He couldn't name the woman, but this man was King Varian Wrynn of Whiterun.

What an honor, he might've thought to himself if he hadn't been treated so _disgracefully_.

Amber stopped a safe distance from King Wrynn and the wizard, ducking her head in a momentary bow. The mage returned it; Varian did not. Wrathion had heard the king had a temper, but he wondered if this was perhaps more than a little uncharacteristic. Varian scrutinized him for a moment. Wrathion straightened for his own sake, not this nord king's. He was tired and he was angry, but he wasn't about to sacrifice his pride.

Varian's eyes never left him, even when he tilted his head toward the wizard. "Well?" he said to her.

The wizard smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. Wrathion resisted a wince. He found it unnerving.

"You're the Dragonborn?" she asked, eyes sparking. That was also unnerving.

Wrathion glowered. If they'd just take this gag off, he'd be happy to tell them so. What, were they afraid of his Voice? They had every reason to be after the night he'd had.

Varian, clearly, had absolutely no patience for Wrathion's face-making. He set his hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Answer," he snarled.

Wrathion, unimpressed, just raised an eyebrow. How rude. Maybe he'd heard about Sharkbait's 'torture'. He shifted his jaw and made a couple more gestures with his eyebrows, hoping one of the three of them would catch the hint. The wizard seemed to, her smile perking a hair.

"Amber," she said to the soldier behind him, "ungag him."

Amber hesitated. "And if he is Dragonborn?"

"I'm not afraid of the Voice," Varian said. "And Katrana's wards are second to none."

Katrana dipped her head in gratitude. Wrathion made a face. As if he'd Shout at the King of Whiterun, unprovoked and without his Blacktalons, in the bowels of Dragonsreach. Please. He'd never make it into the daylight, let alone out of the city. Surely a _little_ more credit was due.

Amber remained unconvinced, but tugged the cloth from Wrathion's mouth regardless. He tweaked his neck and sighed.

"Well! Finally."

"Comfortable?" Varian said flatly.

Wrathion smirked. "Much better, _your majesty_."

He didn't miss the sarcastic strain on the formality. "Splendid," he growled. "Now answer the question."

This man was no fun at all.

Wrathion rolled his eyes. "Dragonborn, you ask? Yes, that's me, however I'm fairly confident your guardswoman here could've—"

"Shut up," Varian said.

Wrathion, stunned, complied by impulse and then glowered. _So_ rude.

Katrana crossed her arms and held her pouting chin, thinking. Varian glanced at her, and at least it wasn't just Wrathion he had no patience for.

"What is it?"

"Just sizing the boy up," she said thoughtfully, and tilted her head. "He's smaller than the legends depict the Dragonborn to be."

Oh, so they were _both_ rude. The word 'boy' rung in his ears.

"You forget I'm still growing," he hissed, looking elsewhere. "And don't call me ' _boy_ '," he added, practically spitting the word. "I'm _Dragonborn_."

"I want proof," Varian said.

Wrathion narrowed his eyes at the king. "I don't have to prove myself to you."

Varian's fingertips tapped the hilt of his blade. "In my experience, only liars say such things."

"Dragonborn," Katrana spoke, smiling. "Can you Shout?"

Wrathion grinned, straightening again, to Amber's discomfort. "Of _course_ I can Shout."

"Show me," Varian said.

Wrathion laughed, just once. "You're encouraging me? You realize a power like the Voice could tear through that impressive armor like—"

"Shut _up_ ," Varian groaned, rolling his eyes.

Wrathion pursed his lips, then exaggerated a sigh. "This is not how you negotiate for the Dragonborn's help, I hope you realize."

Varian snorted. "Your help?"

"Please," Wrathion sneered. "The only reason Whiterun's king descends to a place as dreary as this is because he needs help. Is this about Deathwing?" He asked the question with a perked tone. Varian's jaw locked. Wrathion grinned again. "I thought so."

"You're not doing anything until I know you're Dragonborn," Varian said.

Wrathion gave a slow roll of his head. "And if I don't?"

"You can sit out the rest of your sentence."

"' _Sentence_ '?"

"You kidnapped and tortured one of my men," Varian growled. "No amount of dragon blood pays for that."

He couldn't be serious. It was a _tweak_!

"You think you can confine the Dragonborn to this miserable jail?" Wrathion rumbled quietly, but irrefutably hot with anger.

"I'm fairly confident."

 _Damned_ nords.

But he wasn't about to rot away in Dragonsreach while pressing events carried on without him. Wrathion took a deep breath and sighed again, perhaps even louder than the last one. He shifted his jaw, thinking, then leveled his shoulders and breathed again. His chest filled with ancient power, stirring deep within him, and for a moment he felt relieved of his frustration just sensing the magic whirl within him, seeking release. He opened his mouth and, clearly, he spoke.

" **Zun, Haal Viik**!"

The power exploded from his words, and Varian's pretty sword split from the strap tethering it to his hip, nearly bludgeoning a guard that dodged aside, allowing it to strike the wall instead and clatter to the floor. Amber took a tighter hold of Wrathion's arm and pulled him back a pace or two. He only grinned wide, delighted at the stunned look on the nord king's face.

"By the Nine," Varian breathed.

Katrana didn't react hardly at all, except to smirk after the blade settled. "There's no mistake," she said, eyeing the king.

After a moment, Varian glanced back at Wrathion, and the Dragonborn noticed a lapse in his anger. Clearly, Varian hadn't chosen him for no reason; he required Wrathion specifically for whatever mission he had in mind. It was unfortunate for the king that he was so rude, and that Wrathion didn't take orders from nords.

"Fine, _Dragonborn_ ," he finally acknowledged, facing Wrathion. "Mastering a complete Shout should be impossible for someone your age."

"I'm aware," Wrathion said, grinning still.

Varian gave a ' _hmph_ ', then retrieved his blade from the floor, securing it to his hip again. "I had to be sure."

"Those aren't the only words I know," Wrathion offered in a chime. "If you care to see—"

"Save your strength," he growled. Wrathion only grinned wider. "You aren't wrong," the king spoke again after a time. "I'm in need of some assistance."

"I'm sure we can come to some sort of agreement," Wrathion said, and shifted. "But first, have you considered untying me? I'm confident I've proven, though _brimming_ with dragon blood, to be quite unique from the monster your hold is facing."

Varian scoffed. "You sound sure it's in Whiterun."

"Would I be here if you had reason to believe it were not?"

The king's jaw shifted, and Wrathion didn't admit so, but it was an interesting reaction. Perhaps this wasn't just about dragons.

"Untie him," he said, gesturing at Amber.

The soldier stepped behind Wrathion, freeing him with a few swift motions. Wrathion groaned, rubbing his burned wrists tenderly. He chose not to speak again, tending to the reddened flesh while he waited for Varian to address his conditions. Wrathion was certain they were coming, after all. Sure enough, Varian spoke.

"You're aware of the dragon, then."

Wrathion gave a laugh. "Every man, woman and so-on in Skyrim is aware of the dragon by now, your majesty. You'll find it more relaxing to save your surprise for those who don't know."

Varian narrowed his eyes. "Have you been itching for a day like this?"

Wrathion grinned again, but it was false. "I _do_ relish being right, but honestly? I could have done with getting it wrong, _just_ this once."

"Could you?" Varian sneered, also disingenuous. "You sure did preach about it a lot for someone who hoped to be wrong."

"I didn't _ask_ for this," he hissed. "I didn't even _want_ them to return. And if I thought remaining silent would stop them, we wouldn't be having this conversation, because when Helgen fell, you wouldn't have even known to look for me."

Varian squinted, but said nothing.

"So yes, I did _preach_ ," Wrathion continued, voice rising. "I preached with the thought that if I didn't warn you and your countrymen, no one would. And evidently I was right, because you were _unprepared_. Now, Helgen smolders for it."

Perhaps it was naive of him to be surprised that calling a temperamental nord king out on his shortcomings would set off a rage only nords had. But when Varian's face contorted into something more wolf than man, and when his hand fell upon his blade and drew it shrieking from its sheath, the Dragonborn's throat closed and his weight swayed back. The moment was just that, the blink of an eye. Then Katrana's hand fell on the king's arm and he stopped, glowering at Wrathion, his blade still thirsting for a healthy serving of dragon blood.

"Be glad, my king," Katrana said, her voice quiet and her smile nowhere to be seen. "Your _secrets_ have not left your house."

Wrathion squinted. 'Secrets'?

Varian yanked his arm from Katrana, and to Wrathion's shame, he flinched. But the king sheathed his sword again, glaring at the floor—surely because Wrathion's face was too aggravating to look at. He wouldn't be the first to think so, and doubtfully the last.

"I have two tasks for you, Dragonborn," Varian said, seething. "The first should be obvious to you: find this dragon, Deathwing, and slay it."

"You needn't ask," Wrathion said, and though he was smirking again, he kept his voice careful. The only reason Varian hadn't proceeded was by power of will; Wrathion doubted Katrana could _actually_ restrain him. He doubted all six guards in this room could. "I was working on it before Amber Kearnen, here, interrupted me."

Amber shrugged. "Orders are orders," was all she had to say.

"Yes," Wrathion grumbled. "You nords and your orders."

"My second task requires some explanation," Varian said. His anger was beginning to recede. Wrathion sensed it was at the hand of some colder emotion.

"You've heard about Helgen, clearly," the king said in a bit of a growl. Wrathion held his tongue this time. "Two weeks ago, Deathwing appeared and destroyed it. Just a day before, I received a report from one of my own; Captain Taylor, a man I've put a lot of trust in."

Wrathion recognized the name, recalling Sharkbait's whining about the captain. He dared not say so, however, but this made him irrefutably curious. Sharkbait had refused to tell him much about his business in the Imperial City at all, but here was the King of Whiterun addressing the very same business. And, for some reason Wrathion couldn't place yet, he needed the Dragonborn's help.

He crossed his arms, amused. What an interesting turn of events the last two weeks had been.

"Taylor reported that he and his regiment were resting at Helgen and would be at Whiterun within three days," Varian said. "Then, the following night, I got word that Helgen was destroyed. By a _dragon_ of all things."

"I don't quite see what this has to do with me," Wrathion said, studying the king.

Varian stared at him for a moment, not quite angry. Mostly, but Wrathion saw something else in his eyes. Was it guilt? He had no reason for that. He clearly didn't believe he owed Wrathion any apology.

"My son," Varian said, slowly. "Anduin Llane Wrynn. He was in Helgen."

Wrathion couldn't stop his mouth from parting or his eyebrows from rising. It all clicked at once.

A regiment of decorated Whiterun soldiers, perhaps Skyrim's most esteemed Restoration mage... Sharkbait's whimpering, Varian's odd temper...

The White Pawn was the Prince of Whiterun.

Of _course_.

Varian's plate clanked as he shifted. Wrathion shut his mouth. Skepticism joined the king's face of anger and guilt—no, Wrathion could see it for what it was now. Mourning.

"I sent support to Helgen to help Falkreath clean up the damage," he said. "They confirmed that the Whiterun bodies found were from Taylor's regiment."

Wrathion gave a faint shake of his head. "I'm no necromancer," he said, squinting. This turn of events was confusing him. "What do you expect me to do?"

Varian breathed in, and Wrathion impulsively braced for a second outburst that didn't come. "Anduin's body was never found," he said. "Nor was Taylor's, and a few others."

Ah. The other hostages Deathwing took.

Wrathion grinned, and laughed once. He was nearly offended. "You want me to track down your missing son? Do I look like your errand-runner, King?"

"That," Varian said evenly, "or you're welcome to rot at the bottom of Dragonsreach."

Wrathion scowled. "You can't keep me here."

"You assaulted my soldier."

"No, I mean you _can't_ keep me here," he hissed. "Your little jail is far from the worst situation I've ever found my way out of."

"I'm assuming you're talking about your Blacktalons," Varian said. Wrathion's tongue clucked. "How long will it take them to reach you, I wonder? Talented as I've heard they are, this dungeon is not easily infiltrated. And I shouldn't have to remind you there's a dragon running amok."

"But apparently I must remind you," Wrathion said. "I've no time to track down dead nords, princes-in-distress or no."

Varian seethed. Katrana's hand touched his arm again. "Prince Anduin is alive," she said, "and Whiterun has resources we would be happy to lend you in exchange for your help in finding him."

"' _Resources_ '?" Wrathion echoed, laughing. "Who do you think you're talking to?"

"A vagabond," Katrana said, "not to mention a child. You have little more than the clothes on your back. Your Voice, though powerful, will hardly sustain you during your mission."

Wrathion resisted the urge to growl, grinding his teeth instead. "It's more than your military has, as far as dragons are concerned."

"It's our hope Prince Anduin is with Deathwing," she said. "Deputy Willem—the man you tortured—tells us the dragon kidnapped him and some others before fleeing Helgen."

If Wrathion recalled, however, Sharkbait was also convinced he was the last one alive. "You don't think they're all dead after two weeks?" he said, careful to eject his prior thought from his words.

"Whiterun is optimistic," Katrana said, smiling. "And Prince Anduin _is_ alive."

"You must be _very_ optimistic," Wrathion sneered. He shrugged, turning his head elsewhere. "I can't waste my time pining corpses for a crown."

"But you can waste it rotting here?" Varian crooked his eyebrow.

Wrathion scoffed, frustrated. No, he supposed he didn't want to wait here for Left and Right to break him out. To his annoyance, Varian wasn't wrong; that would take time. He had things to do. He looked at the king again, glaring. "What resources?"

"Support," Katrana answered. "Highlord Bolvar Fordragon, for one."

"The disembodied name of a favored nord means nothing to me," Wrathion said.

"He's a paladin," she said. "An adept fighter and more loyal to Whiterun than any other. Surely you don't want to face this dragon alone, do you?"

Wrathion didn't answer, but Katrana seemed to get something out of his silence anyway, based on how her eyes glimmered in that eerie way that made him feel just a little unsafe in her presence.

"Prophet Velen has also agreed to accompany you," Katrana said, "should you search for his student."

That perked his interest. "Your prophet is alive?"

"Bolvar brought him back to Whiterun some days ago," Varian said. "He's the only reason we know Anduin is alive. He's weak, though. If he were to go with you, you'd have to take care of him."

Wrathion screwed up his nose. "Prince-chasing _and_ prophet-sitting?"

"Velen says he can sense the prince," Katrana said before Varian could put the anger on his face into words. "He even believes he'll be able to track him, once closer. And, perhaps by extension, your dragon."

 _That_ sounded useful. Wrathion ground his teeth.

"I believe our quartermaster would be more than happy to equip you with some real armor as well," Katrana teased, glancing over his frivolous getup. "And a weapon."

Wrathion adjusted his shoulders in a way reminiscent of a bird ruffling its feathers. The way the decorations on his leather pauldrons flickered in the movement didn't help. "I have a weapon."

"That little knife I lifted off you?" Amber piped up, scoffing. "It'd shatter in a fight with a dragon."

"I'd use my _Voice_ , thank you very much," he hissed.

"I could also assist you."

Wrathion glanced at Katrana and sneered. "You?"

She smirked, then shrugged. "I'm needed in Whiterun for my expertise in dragons, but I could whip something up to keep in contact with you during your mission."

"Oh," Wrathion grinned wider, amused. "You study dragons? For how long?"

"Longer than you," she answered quite proudly. "Despite what you might think, Wrathion, you are not the only one who remembered."

His eyes narrowed. He wanted to call her a liar, but he wasn't sure what she could be lying about. It didn't really stop him from deciding she must've been, but it bothered him anyway.

"You're quite desperate to have your little _White Pawn_ returned," Wrathion smirked, "aren't you?"

Varian bristled. "Where did you—"

"Willem." Wrathion spat the word like it had a bad taste. "Who I'm sure failed to mention that he _deserted_ your prince to save his own skin, but he had many interesting things to tell me."

He didn't bother to tell them most of it was information pertaining to the dragon, not sins against Whiterun. Or that Sharkbait had failed to even tell him who the White Pawn really was. He deserved it after dragging Wrathion into this mess with his stunt at Fort Graymoor.

Varian, as the Dragonborn had hoped, looked aggravated. Wrathion's smirk was near wild; he'd almost forgotten what it felt like to have a semblance of a foothold in this conversation. These nords were doing their damnedest to shepherd him into a corner for their own ends, and it was grating at best. But he could hardly dismiss the usefulness of Whiterun's favorite paladin and a prophet capable of honing in on one of Deathwing's appetizers.

Perhaps a shiny new dagger sounded nice as well.

And it all bested sitting in this dank, miserable jail for who knows how long. It was maddening, but it seemed almost unavoidable. Ego aside, there was no way he was going to wait around in that frigid cell for his agents to rescue him while Deathwing laid waste to Skyrim, nor while more dragons followed his grand entrance.

And there _would_ be more dragons.

So he sighed, resentfully, then pulled up his chin and shoulders. "Very well."

Varian, who had drifted into snarling orders at two of his guards, fired a look at Wrathion. Katrana smirked wide.

"So you'll help?" she asked, playing off her pleased voice as hopeful, perhaps for the Dragonborn's dignity.

"I'll certainly do away with your dragon," he said, holding his proud, slightly bored expression. "And I'll take your _resources_ —" another word he didn't like the taste of, "—as well. With any luck, you'll get a little prince for your trouble."

Varian, clearly, didn't like the way the Dragonborn went about his compliance, but sighed hard regardless. "You have Whiterun's thanks."

Wrathion smirked, cocking his head. He hadn't lied in Rorikstead, the thanks felt good on the rare occasion he received it.

"Prepare my regiment," he said. "I'll not spend a moment more than I have to in Dragonsreach."

Varian sneered, not amused. "Are those orders?"

Wrathion's eyes glinted. The king wasn't amused, but he certainly was.

"You nords and your orders."

———Last Seed 19th———

Captain Taylor didn't believe in draugr.

Oh, sure, there were plenty of stories about the monsters. Long-dead dragon worshippers—or some preferred to call them cultists—that slumbered in tombs, periodically waking to praise their priests or dismember an unlucky spelunker. Taylor must have heard a thousand stories about alleged encounters with the unliving things, and it wasn't so much that he _scoffed_ at their supposed proof, but shied from it. More than being too good for ghost stories, it was something along the lines of preferring if they weren't true.

In the hours following Helgen—exactly how many, he was unsure—Taylor was forced to give up on that. He lamented the luxury of blissful ignorance as a rotting axe swung passed him, one he was able to dodge—awkwardly, because he cradled a smaller body in his arms—as he made his way through the crumbling halls of a tomb he had, thankfully, yet to call his.

As if the late-day sky turning black and raining fire wasn't enough; as if a monster Taylor could only clumsily call a _dragon_ wasn't enough; as if Helgen burning and breaking before his eyes and that dragon sweeping him and what remained of his regiment away was not _more_ than enough—now there were draugr. And there were dozens of them. Everywhere! This crypt was up to its ears in them! And not only did Taylor have to face the very unnerving reality where they existed, but he was submerged in it. Every corner he took shelter in, they just seemed to find him.

And they weren't the only thing looking.

Taylor skirted around a corner, taking advantage of the temporary cover to turn himself around. He shifted the body in his arms, hoisting the teenager's chest over his shoulder and freeing his right arm to make use of his crossbow. It worked well enough, surprising one of the three draugr chasing him with a bolt to the nose, but it only worked once before he had to whip back around, adjusting the boy in his arms, and keep going. Taylor's body _hated_ him for it, too. There were cuts, bruises and burns—oh, the burns were the _worst_. They stained his body with splotches of red and black, scarring the skin with cracking, crumbling edges, and they _hurt_. Especially when he had to dart around these tunnels like a mouse in Dragonsreach. He'd really much rather be terrorized by cats. At least they didn't shout magic-imbued gibberish.

He fumbled in vain to reload his crossbow, working around the boy, as he ran and rounded another corner, but one he chose too quickly—it was a long corridor. Taylor cursed and clenched his teeth, willing the pain of his wounds to hold their complaints as he picked up the pace. It was without success; he heard one of the draugr, the archer, as its bones and bow clattered as one. Taylor tried to estimate the archer's shot and avoid it, and was somewhat successful, but the arrowhead hunted him down and burrowed deep into his left thigh regardless. His mangled cry was silenced only as his head struck the stone floor, stunning him into a haze of dizzying sparks that soon disappeared as two new sources of agony joined the fray of his wounds. He found the boy, who had sprung from his arms in the fall, now lying motionless out of reach.

Rusted steel boots thundered toward Taylor, and despite that his neck felt half-detached from his shoulders following the impact with the floor, he rolled onto his back and kicked his better leg—the one _not_ pierced with an arrow—into the approaching draugr's gut. Like most non-lethal attacks, it didn't seem to care, but it allowed Taylor to launch it backwards and, through the spinning fog in his head, ready his crossbow and fire a bolt into the creature's skull. Its blue eyes went out like snuffed flames as black blood and embalming fluid spilled free. Taylor's body went to relent, but he heard the archer nocking its bow and struggled to resist the impending wave of exhaustion.

He fumbled to reload the crossbow, but the draugr was faster and Taylor was a sitting duck. It fired the arrow, and for a split second, he saw light in the tunnel.

The arrow whisked passed his head, never scathing him, and one sharp blink righted his senses. There _was_ light, and it _was_ in the tunnel, but instead of beckoning Taylor into Sovngarde, it whirled passed him from behind and swallowed the draugr's head in white fire. With an agonized wail, the creature crumbled and burned in the weaponized light. Taylor sputtered out a gasp, the weight of his exhaustion reclaiming him, but bewilderment kept him from collapsing to the floor.

Then it clicked, as he remembered the events leading up to this, and Taylor floundered onto his stomach, relocating the boy. He was turned over and balancing on his elbow, toward Taylor now, and in his hand pulsed a fiery light, one that was dimming as fast as his eyes.

"Capt..."

He sunk to the floor, and the spell flickered out. Taylor forgot his wounds, scrambling into an agonizing crawl that could only draw cringes and hisses from him in his distraction.

"Anduin!" he said as he reached the boy. "Prince Anduin!"

Taylor rolled him onto his back, where his head fell haphazardly to one side. The prince offered no response to Taylor's prodding, reclaimed by unconsciousness. Was it the commotion that had woken him in the first place, or just a miracle? All the captain could do was curse to himself. He fixed Anduin's head in his hands to check his wounds, one being the unsightly red streak in his otherwise golden hair. It was an old wound, one Taylor only assumed Anduin had received in Helgen, as it'd been there since their arrival on the mountain. Besides that and his other wound, Taylor was thankful he had not sustained new damage.

The earth shook all around them; dust rained from the ceiling, submerging the pair in a brown fog. Taylor swore again, and began coiling the prince into his arms.

"Time to go," he said under his breath, as though the horrors hunting them would hear—and as though _Anduin_ would hear.

He started to stand and bit back a pained cry, nearly collapsing. The arrow in his thigh felt as though it'd been grabbed and twisted, and it was far from the last of Taylor's problems. His head spun with a blooming concussion of his own, and all his other wounds pulsed or surged with every movement. He clenched his teeth and rose, quite literally, through the pain. The limp in his wounded leg was too severe to walk on, so he was forced to lean on the wall and, at a mind-numbingly slow pace, hobble through the earthen hallway.

The crypts groaned and shivered around him, and every time the hair on Taylor's neck stood on end. There was no way to tell where the draugr were until they were within spitting distance, but at least his other problem left wakes of destruction when it traversed the caverns. Not that that was actually all that comforting to think about, but at least his impending demise came with a warning.

The ominous aches of the mountain were joined with the sound of trickling water, which reminded Taylor of his thirst so suddenly he coughed on his own dry tongue. He limped toward the sound, thankful to find it tucked in a small alcove that he could easily guard. As if his wounds knew this, they ached even worse, begging him to retire into the recess. He ducked inside, wary of _both_ Anduin's injured halves, and gently laid the prince down on the east end of the small alcove. He whined, faintly, and Taylor turned hopeful.

"Prince Anduin?" he croaked—his mouth remained dry.

Anduin didn't seem to respond, so Taylor sighed and distracted himself by pulling a small steel plate of his pauldron apart, using it as a container to catch the water that dribbled from a crack in the ceiling. He hoped it might be snow from the peak, slipping into the mountain and melting. That'd make it _kind of_ clean, right? He found himself too thirsty to care anyway. As he drank, the prince stirred a second time. Taylor swallowed and tried again.

"Anduin."

The prince only groaned and shied away from Taylor in petty objection. His own name sounded suspiciously like 'open your eyes', especially in the captain's voice. Anduin, instead, squeezed them tighter shut, as though it were not a voice that found him in his deep sleep, but a light. One that tugged at the edges of his eyelids, and one he fought stubbornly not to let in.

"Anduin," the captain said once more.

"No," Anduin managed, though it came more as a vowel-less slur. The sheer effort it took for just a word was jarring even in his exhaustion; waking was seldom this difficult for him.

Taylor couldn't resist a laugh at the prince. He sounded as though Taylor were dragging him out of bed. The captain's voice already sounded distorted through his half-awake state, but the distant rumbling Anduin heard beyond it was worse. Taylor eyed the ceiling as dust rained again, and Anduin would have missed it entirely, if not for the way it made his muscles cinch up. Bits of imagery flittered on the backdrops of the prince's eyelids, and he couldn't help but liken their brevity and eye-catching colors to hummingbirds, too quick and complex in their ways for him to keep up. He saw flames, black wings, watchtowers, gold light, banners, red eyes—

He sucked in a breath that tasted of dust and iron. The tang triggered a series of coughs, and with it, surges of pain in his head. In the fit, Anduin rolled onto his side. Taylor frowned, silently watching the prince struggle through the process. The muscles in his back flinched with every gasp; Taylor's eyes stung some at the particles of light that clung to Anduin's back, the only evidence the captain had that what he'd seen an hour before hadn't been the result of sheer delirium. Whether what Anduin had managed was typical of mages, Taylor was unsure, as he knew very little magic himself. He reached out to the prince.

"Easy," the captain soothed, messaging Anduin's shoulder. When the coughing settled and Anduin laid flat on his back again, Taylor shifted closer and offered his makeshift cup. "Here."

Anduin squinted at the piece of steel, which was in and of itself a good sign to Taylor of the prince's wakefulness. He looked from the offer to Taylor, slow to recognize the captain in the dark and in his condition. He didn't look much better than Anduin felt, all sweat on his brow and gray bags under his eyes. Anduin frowned and tried to sit up, and for as quick as the captain's hand was to return to his shoulder, it didn't keep his head from bursting with pain. He could only whine and lay back down, willing the mistake away.

"Easy, I said." Taylor rubbed the prince's shoulder until that passed too, then fixed the same hand under Anduin's head to help him drink.

It was a slow process, and one he had to be delicate with to keep from invoking another choking fit. Anduin laid down again, sighing, but evidently more aware. He sifted through his memories, and more so the darkness that shrouded them. He struggled to remember more than flashes, but one thing that stuck out, quite clearly, were those fiery eyes. He winced at the memory.

"What happened?" he asked. His voice was small—he hardly recognized it.

"You don't remember?" Taylor said. He seemed to realize it was a silly question a moment later and gave a heavy sigh. "What's the last thing you recall?"

Anduin thought about it. He went first to Helgen, because it seemed like the best place to start, but he found more empty memories in place of the event. He could only recall the vaguest details—the hummingbirds, so to speak. But he remembered what followed much more clearly—Taylor's plan to get Anduin and what remained of the regiment out—and so chose not to mention Helgen.

"The plan failed," he said, then winced. He looked at Taylor. "Where are..."

He didn't need to finish the question. Taylor's grim expression was answer enough, and upon seeing it, the memory returned to him—not as a crashing wave, but more like a bubble emerging from the murky darkness that polluted his mind now. There'd been three others—one was killed upon the dragon's arrival, when it had first found them trying to escape. Anduin couldn't recall what had become of the other two, but he feared the worst and found it hard to hope for much else. It had been his decision to turn around that led to their probable demise, though—there was no way around that. Had he listened, when Taylor went to distract the dragon, and gone with the regiment like he was supposed to, perhaps the three of them would be out of here right now. Instead, he'd stayed to help Taylor, and so two more soldiers died and Anduin—

A horrific pain seized his mind, chasing out the thoughts in an instant. The pain was unreal, and it burned with such intensity that for a long, agonizing moment, he hadn't even realized it was his own right leg that caused it. He felt it all the way into the bone, as though it'd been subjected to the glare of those hellish eyes and shattered under the stress. It was like the pain had been awakened by the train of thought, and suddenly Anduin wished he was asleep again. Taylor's hand had returned to his shoulder at some point, preventing him from writhing and hurting himself further, until finally the pain receded and he was left only with its memory and a dreading shiver.

He remembered that too. It was, in fact, the _last_ thing he remembered. This agonizing fire that had broken cracks in his ward and submerged his leg in dragon flames. And even though the pain lingered as a tense, fearful sensation, he found that he was just glad it was _only_ his one leg that suffered, not Taylor's whole body. The thought of the same pain burning all over him made him shudder.

He was pulled from the thoughts at the sound of Taylor sighing. "You should have gone."

Anduin flinched, and for a moment he wanted to be angry, but all that manifested was a resigned irritation. He _should_ have gone. He knew it now, and he'd known it an hour ago when he could've chosen to. It was what Taylor had wanted, and it was what his responsibility to Whiterun demanded. He'd had his reasons, though, in the split moment he'd been given to make the choice—but now, in light of the consequences, he knew those reasons may not have been worth it.

"It was going to kill you," he argued, his voice hardly a breath.

Taylor's answer was immediate: "Now it may well kill the both of us."

Anduin only frowned. His leg burned, reminding him of his decision, as though the wound knew it wouldn't be there, the rest of the regiment wouldn't be dead and they wouldn't be trying to outrun death itself if he hadn't stayed. His jaw shifted.

"It won't," he said.

Taylor gave one exasperated laugh. "Prince—"

"Not if you let me look at those wounds," Anduin continued.

He went to sit up, met with the protest of his head and Taylor's hand, but he pushed through both until he was, to some extent, righted. Even just that proved taxing, and he was already out of breath and aching, but he waved Taylor back when the captain tried to intervene.

"Your wounds are—"

"Manageable," Anduin said between gasps.

He reached into the collar of his shirt, ignoring the silent protests in Taylor's face, and pulled a necklace free, tangling the chain in his fingers before picking out the fresh wound in Taylor's leg to set his hand on. The eager light of his magic flared, but it was gentler than the fire that even now smoldered on the draugr archer's head elsewhere.

Taylor relaxed under the magic's comfort, and more once he found casting the magic inadvertently eased Anduin's pain as well. Taylor eyed the amulet pressed to his thigh underneath Anduin's hand, not needing to fully see it to recognize the pair of half-spread bird's wings and the jewel embedded in its chest.

"Mara's blessing might do me better, wouldn't you say?"

"Kynareth will bless you with endurance," Anduin said. His voice sounded clearer. "And I don't have an Amulet of Mara on me. I didn't expect to need it."

"Not the marrying type?" he joked.

Anduin shot him a look to mask his smile. "I meant I don't normally expect to be the only healer in the area." He returned to his work and shrugged. "And, maybe the other thing."

Taylor sneered, amused. "What would your father say?"

"'Thank the Nine'."

The captain barked out a laugh. Anduin smiled, and only when the mountain itself came alive with a faint rumbling did the looming sense of darkness cloud around them again. Anduin watched dust rain down from the ceiling, leaving a brownish fog in the air that made his nose wrinkle. He distracted himself with Taylor's wound, but even that was short-lived as the captain began to shift.

"Captain—"

"We'd better move," Taylor said. "It's no good here. We need—"

The words were lost to a pained hiss when Taylor had tried to stand, now forced to seat himself on the floor again. Anduin flexed his fingers and the light in his hand flared, allowing him to partially soothe the captain's wound. Taylor groaned, more frustrated than pained.

"You're not going anywhere," Anduin said.

Taylor opened his mouth to object, and while Anduin was just as ready to counter his complaints, he found he didn't have to, because a wave of dizziness came over the captain and he was forced to slump back against the wall and wait it out. Again he groaned, but this one carried an air of defeat.

"It doesn't sound close," Anduin offered. "We're safe."

"For now," Taylor grumbled.

"I'll take it."

The captain only hummed in response. Anduin sighed, distracting himself with Taylor's wounds again. But despite his insistence, Anduin understood and very much sympathized with Taylor's desire to move. He didn't want to be found again either. Not by the draugr.

And definitely not by the dragon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [dragon word translations](http://textuploader.com/li1b)
> 
> in which everyone is having a bad day and also, zombies.
> 
> *so i maybe (definitely) have an agender and possibly demigender wrathion headcanon. because i have a big ol' soft spot for agender/demigender headcanons. also, demiromantic anduin. and probably a bunch of other stuff. for both of them, but also everyone. headcanons!!!


	5. Vok Voth Krein

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **content warnings:** mentions of death/dead bodies, cuts/burns/mangled limbs, mentions of dragons eating people (forgive me, i genuinely don't know how to phrase that), blood (lotta blood), broken bones

Chapter 5: Vok Voth Krein  
"Up with the Sun"

———Last Seed 31st———

It was cloudy that morning. A certain dullness sapped the energy from every color in Whiterun. Wrathion observed the city from the steps of Dragonsreach, leaning on a pillar leading up to the doors, high above even the pluming chimneys. It was still early enough to be incapacitating, and only the knot in Wrathion's chest drove off his growing need for rest. Sleep could wait; dragons could not. Two weeks was well overdue, as far as he was concerned. He found it eerily lucky that more attacks hadn't surfaced yet, but it wouldn't last the longer he was stranded in Whiterun waiting for Nord King Wrynn to get his act together.

Where was that paladin, anyway—Bolvar, wasn't it? This was infuriating. Militaries couldn't act swiftly if their holds depended on it, verily, but it didn't settle Wrathion's aggravation with how long it was taking. He still cursed himself for getting captured at Fort Graymoor. He would've been well on his way to that mountain Sharkbait—Willem, whatever—had spied by now, Left and Right in tow, if he hadn't distracted himself with that blue-and-gold duo. Now, instead, he was stuck here waiting for Varian and his grunts to catch up.

Well, all right, he _could_ walk out of the city. There was no one here to stop him. It's not like he needed anyone in Whiterun, even with his two best Blacktalons missing in action. He _could_ set out for the mountaintop.

But he was... considerate. Yes, that was it—he was being thoughtful.

Besides, Bolvar was supposed to be coming with Wrathion's new knife. Not that he needed a weapon to fight dragons, he had his Voice. But he wanted the knife for those moments he didn't want to use the Voice. It took a lot of power, and he couldn't go Shouting at every enemy he crossed. And King Varian had been generous enough to load him with a few skilled hands. He couldn't say no to an offer like that, could he? It was rude, at best.

And he was being _considerate_ , remember, by staying in Whiterun despite obviously not needing to. He was _Dragonborn_. Certainly, he could go, and he could scale the mountain and he could slay the dragon. But he was choosing not to out of courtesy for Whiterun, not that they deserved it, but what could he say? He was courteous in and of himself.

He shifted his jaw at the grayed city, as the knot in his chest lingered.  _Dragonborn,_ he reminded himself.

"You must be him."

Wrathion nearly jumped, glancing over his shoulder toward the palace doors. A man in golden plate approached—followed by a dozen uniform suits of chain mail—with his eyebrows crooked, but an amused smile on his face.

"Pardon," the man said, "I didn't mean to startle you."

Wrathion scoffed, facing the cityscape again. "You didn't," he grumbled. "Three years and Skyrim remains too cold for my liking. I've been shaking in my boots waiting for you."

"Ah," he replied, kind enough to swallow a laugh.

"I imagine you're King Wrynn's pick of the litter," Wrathion sneered at the view. "Highlord, was it?"

The man's breastplate clanked as he dipped his head in a bow. "Bolvar Fordragon. And you're the Dragonborn?"

Wrathion grinned. "The one and only."

"Good," Bolvar said, passing him to descend the steps, "then let's not waste any time. The prophet is at the Temple of Kynareth. We'll meet with him there."

He held out his hand, and clutched there was a short blade in a scabbard. Wrathion made a face, but stood from the pillar to follow Bolvar. He retrieved the knife and plucked it partway from its sheath to examine it. He almost wanted to laugh at the golden hilt and matching embellishments along the blade, small blue jewels set in the cross-guard. The pommel was a lion's head, maw open in a roar, with two blue ribbon tails falling out from between the beast's teeth. It certainly screamed Whiterun, and that was a bit jarring to him, but the blade was sharp enough to deter Wrathion from testing his luck on the edge. It would do. He wouldn't admit it was in better condition than the old, wearing knife Amber Kearnen had confiscated from him, now again tethered to his hip where it belonged.

"I heard the prophet was dead," he said, maintaining an air of boredom.

"From Willem?" Bolvar asked, but didn't wait for an answer. "He must have assumed. Velen's wounds were great when I found him, but his magic is not famed for nothing. I don't think anyone else could have survived the same conditions."

Wrathion hummed, feigning an unimpressed face. "I don't suppose you've seen this dragon."

"No, but I've seen the destruction it can cause." Bolvar's voice had turned grim. "The king assures me he witnessed you Shout with his own eyes, and even still I worry."

Wrathion scoffed, not quite offended, but something close to it. "Your worry is misplaced, Highlord. Deathwing will be wishing for a rematch with your prophet once he gets a look at me."

Bolvar just laughed, and despite his clear doubt, he was sincerely amused. "For your sake and mine, Dragonborn, I hope you're right."

The Temple of Kynareth stood not far from the foot of Dragonsreach's long ascent. It was humble in build, like most of Whiterun, with only its height suggesting something special about it. Bolvar shoved through one of the doors, holding its edge until Wrathion slipped in after him; the rest of the soldiers waited outside. Windows perched high on the walls invited rays of morning sun into the temple, passing through decorative shrubs hung on the ceiling joists and lighting the patterned floor of blue and gold stones. Wrathion eyed a robed priest as she dipped her head to Bolvar before continuing on her way. Perched on the far side of the temple was a small statue, unsurprisingly—it was Kynareth. Or a representation of the Divine, anyway, where the sick, weak or otherwise troubled would lie their hand, bow their head and pray.

Bolvar, true to his word, didn't waste time. He sought out Velen and approached, Wrathion tailing behind. The prophet sat on one of the several stone benches outlining the embellished floor, paler even than his already white skin normally was. Wrathion cringed, displeased with the man's condition. If it was true he could perhaps find the dragon, then Wrathion thought him admittedly valuable, but his fragile state was definitely frustrating.

"Prophet," Bolvar greeted, bowing his head.

Velen smiled at him, but even that was weak. "Highlord, it's good to see you again. I cannot thank you enough."

"Nonsense," Bolvar said. "I'm only glad you're safe. How are you fairing?"

"It's a process," the prophet sighed, "but I've found a way to press on every time before." His eyes traveled from the highlord to Wrathion, and after taking in the sight, he smiled again. "You must be the Dragonborn."

"His name is Wrathion," Bolvar said.

Wrathion shifted his weight and cupped his chin in a hand, studying the prophet for a moment. "You can sense your prince, is that right?"

"Yes," Velen answered. "It's faint, but with Deputy Willem's insight, I hope Anduin's aura will be stronger as we travel closer to the barrow."

"Barrow," Wrathion repeated in question, eyeing Bolvar.

"Bleak Falls," the highlord said. "Kearnen confirmed it's the same mountain a resident of the nearby town claimed he saw the dragon ascend the day Helgen fell. She had sent scouts to investigate a week ago."

"And?"

"They never returned."

Wrathion clucked his tongue. Of course they hadn't.

The highlord directed his attention to Velen again. "Are you truly up for this, Prophet?"

Velen gave another weak smile. "I faced this monster— _Deathwing_ in the flesh. Take my word for it—" his eyes moved to Wrathion then, "—you will need all the help you can get."

Wrathion only raised an eyebrow superciliously. He'd hoped, vaguely, that the overbearing disbelief would subside once Skyrim was forced to believe in dragons. But no, silly him, they simply latched onto something else to doubt him about, like his _qualifications_ or his _age_. It was maddening.

"In that case," Bolvar spoke up, "take it easy. You're our best shot at finding the prince, but you must survive the journey."

Velen laughed, though his voice was upsettingly hoarse. "The stage is yours, Highlord. Dragonborn."

Wrathion hummed. "Are we done here? I've been delayed enough as it is."

Bolvar squinted—Wrathion didn't miss the trace of aggravation—but the highlord made no comment. Velen shifted on the bench and began to stand; Bolvar was prepared to help him if need be. The prophet stood, though. His leg was stiff and surely weak, but he made use of it regardless. Wrathion cringed, irritated with the prophet's condition all over again.

"You'll never make it up the mountain like that," he said.

"We have horses," Bolvar said. "Hopefully, it'll offer enough rest. And it means we'll reach Riverwood by midday," he added, regarding the Dragonborn's impatience.

Wrathion couldn't help but brighten at the mention of horses. The thought of evading another grueling walk was just the sort of boost he needed.

He grinned. "To Riverwood, then."

———Last Seed 29th———

An aggravating scratching sound marked the twelfth day since Helgen's fall. Or the thirteenth, Anduin wasn't sure—it was hard to tell time in this curious mountainside temple. Captain Taylor didn't know either, but they agreed they'd been here nearly two weeks. And Anduin _assumed_ it was a temple, anyway. He couldn't really explore much as he was, but from the alcove he and Taylor sat in, he could make out very, _very_ old signs of architecture, eaten away by time itself. He could vaguely recall the entrance to the cavernous structure as well, when he'd seen it twelve (or thirteen) days ago; blackened and worn, like a charred skeleton. When he first saw it, he'd been unnerved. He still was, if he was honest with himself.

Unfortunately, he either hadn't gotten a good look at the mountain while trapped in the dragon's claws, or his memory continued to fail him. Either way, he could barely remember, let alone identify where he was. North of Helgen, he knew that much. But how far north? Was it even completely north? He couldn't be sure the dragon hadn't drifted east or west.

It didn't really matter. Not if he never got out of here, anyway.

Anduin pursed his lips and adjusted his grip on a wearing stone, the one he'd tasked with marking the dates in the wall. He traced over the line representing today to clarify it against the rugged surface. He heard an echo and startled, turning, but it was just Captain Taylor stirring. The prince felt sheepish and stopped. It was probably irritating the captain's sleep. He sighed and slouched against the wall, having long since learned to take care not to move his head too quickly. He was sure he'd suffered a concussion, initially, and a bad one at that. It was hard to tell, but he was fairly certain it had cleared up by now. The cut in his skull had scabbed and still hurt to touch, not to mention burned every so often. He feared mild infection. It was fortunate that his magic had warded off something worse, at least.

His leg was an entirely different story. It was mangled by some wretched magic Anduin had hesitantly remembered was dragon fire, and there was something cruel about the way the leg did not move or feel anything like its healthy, left-side counterpart, yet could still report searing pain if he so much as breathed wrong. He was certain it couldn't be saved. He was fearful it was killing him, too, but he hadn't the means to do much about it. He could stave off the worst with his teachings from Master Velen, but as time went on, he worried he was only delaying the inevitable. He just hoped he could delay it long enough to find some way out of here.

Perhaps, also, both his leg and head would have been in better condition if they were his top priority. He had to tend to them diligently if he wanted to survive, but he also had to if he wanted Captain Taylor to survive. His wounds were lesser, but in far greater quantity. Draugr seemed to scour every inch of the mountain, aware of their presence, and Anduin sometimes wondered how they'd kept each other alive for this long, but the prince, his magic specifically, was the only thing standing between them and death.

And he couldn't even stand. The irony wasn't lost on him.

Anduin rubbed his face in his hands. Everything ached; the pain of hunger had become constant, and he had no idea what to do about it. He couldn't move, though he'd tried several times. Twice he'd blacked out from the pain, and once he'd witnessed every agonizing second, and he did not want to risk the latter again. He wasn't sure if Taylor had chosen the alcove for this reason, but water trickled down from the ceiling into a stream that disappeared through the corner, and though it wasn't Anduin's definition of clean, it hadn't killed them either. He'd used it to wash blood from his Amulet of Kynareth. He shifted his jaw and pulled the amulet off his neck, looking over it. At least he felt better with it here. He rested his head against the wall and sighed again.

Two weeks and no rescue. Was it ridiculous of him to even hope for a rescue? It wasn't like Whiterun would simply let a dragon fly off with their prince, but, recalling the state Helgen was in by the end of the attack (which was a struggle, because Anduin found most of the memory to be blank), he wouldn't be surprised if they just assumed the worst. It was unlikely Whiterun had any better idea of where he was anyway. It was probably more realistic to assume he'd have to get Captain Taylor and himself out on his own—but given their conditions, only marginally.

The walls shook and groaned. Dust rained from the ceiling. Anduin's chest clenched, but he didn't bother to open his eyes or lift his head from the wall. The mountain had done so plenty of times before, and by now he knew why. The dragon was injured according to Taylor—how, Anduin had a guess—but it appeared to be anchored here for the time being. It'd devoured the surviving members of the regiment to regain its strength, but it didn't seem to be enough. It also seemed to be aware there were more mortals hiding somewhere in the caverns—at least, Anduin assumed, because the dragon appeared to be searching for them. He felt like he should've been more surprised, but then, he'd once enjoyed listening to Lady Katrana go on about her knowledge of dragons, and she'd said many times they were very intelligent. He supposed the fact they had an entire language was proof enough of that.

Did Whiterun know Helgen was destroyed by a dragon? After twelve days of hiding from one, Anduin couldn't imagine doubting their existence, but, he supposed he was at the mercy of some special circumstances. Maybe what remained of Helgen looked like it could have just as easily been attacked by some well-armed ambush. Anduin wasn't exactly familiar with what a destroyed city was supposed to look like, let alone if there was some distinguishable difference between one wrecked by mortals or dragons.

He opened his eyes, watching the water drip down from the ceiling for a time. Feeling sorry for himself had come and gone—he didn't have the energy for it any longer, and it hadn't done him much in the way of favors anyway. All it really did was obstruct him from thinking clearly, and that in turn prevented him from finding a way off this mountain. Anduin glanced at Captain Taylor again, pale and covered in red and black wounds. Only blotches of his blue and gold uniform peeked through the damage, dulled with the blood and dirt he'd smudged trying to wash it out at some point. His breaths came in slight wheezes as the captain's condition, like Anduin's, had slowly deteriorated. Their wounds practically trapped them here.

The caverns rumbled and the dust showered again. Anduin looked up this time. Had he imagined it, or did it feel closer? He hoped he was just anxious. He had no idea what he'd do if they were found.

"Gods..."

Anduin startled and looked back at Taylor. The captain was awake, rapidly becoming aware of his pains again. He glared at the ceiling, where some dirt still rained.

"You're awake," Anduin said.

"I heard it," Taylor grumbled.

Anduin swallowed and only gave a nod. Even when the shaking stopped, there was still something unnerving about the air. It was humid, almost, and smelled of something abhorrent. Despite its warmth, it made Anduin shiver. He found breathing harder, and he wasn't the only one; even Taylor's breaths became more labored. He looked up again, but the ceiling was still. The humidity passed and was replaced with a bone-chilling coldness that really made Anduin shudder. He gripped his own sleeves, tugging his bloodied regalia close while he tried to make sense of the fluctuating cavern temperatures. They'd never shifted this much all at once.

"What's happening?" he asked Taylor.

The captain cringed, and sat up from the wall. "We need to move."

Alarm surged into Anduin's throat. "No, you're too—"

The mountain shook a third time, and the cold seeped all the way to Anduin's blood. The walls quaked, hard, and small rocks joined the raining mists of dirt. None of that was what scared him, though. Instead, it was the audible rumble that accompanied it all, perhaps even _commanded_ it all.

Anduin recognized the dragon's breathing.

He turned toward the mouth of the alcove, shaking to the point that his leg ached with a dull heat, but he saw nothing. He couldn't will himself to relax, however—even as Taylor, biting back hisses, moved to sit in front of him—not as the caves shivered with every breath the dragon took. It was as if the earth feared it. A timid servant, shuddering at the presence of its cruel master.

Then it all stopped. The shaking, the dragon's breathing, all of it. Anduin held his own air, staring at the alcove mouth, afraid to look away but simultaneously afraid of what would appear if he stared long enough. Time drew on, as passive yet agonizing as the blunt heat in his leg, until Anduin's head felt light from how little he breathed. Something gave way—maybe he heard the cavern let out one of its usual groans elsewhere, or maybe Taylor sighed a lungful of air away. Something gave and Anduin felt every muscle in his body follow suit, even the pain in his leg. For a moment, the fear passed.

Then the alcove quaked violently and threw them both back. Earth spilled from the ceiling, spurring Taylor to pull himself over Anduin. Chunks of rock struck the captain's back, firing surges of pain through his body that broke free as yelps. Even when the destruction settled, it never fell quiet again. When Taylor looked back, the alcove had been shattered—the mouth was now split wide open, and staring down at them from high above was a face of black scales and fire eyes.

"Kulaan," was the noise that clung to the dragon's hot, rotting breath.

Flashes came racing through Anduin's mind. Helgen had been a blur in his memory, a mess of blood, rubble and dragon fire. Now he remembered the last time this monster had stared him down just moments before Master Velen fired some kind of holy light into the dragon's chest, leaving deep, gold-glowing cracks in its flesh that burned there even now. That piercing gash was how he'd saved Captain Taylor when the escape from the mountain went south—he'd struck it, the dragon had reeled back in obvious pain, and... he didn't remember the rest, but he didn't need it.

Anduin sat up and raised his arm, committed to doing the same today, but the dragon growled a word— **Yol** —and its mouth lit up with hellish fire. Just the sight sent Anduin's leg into a tantrum, flaring with such unholy pain the light in his own hand flickered out. Taylor guarded the prince with his body.

"Prince—"

" **Toor Shul**!"

It was all Anduin could do to stretch his palm flat, passed Taylor, and summon a ward. The fire struck his shield and nearly shattered it right there, but he bled his magic dry and it was enough to part the flames around him and Taylor, blackening what remained of the alcove instead. The dragon's breath was truly volcanic, turning the back wall to molten sludge. It ultimately backfired against the beast, as the ceiling caved and rubble crashed upon the dragon's head, cutting its hellfire short and sparing Anduin and Taylor by sheer luck.

Taylor didn't think about his wounds or even the prince's. He only grabbed Anduin's arm and hauled them both to their feet, forcing Anduin to make use of a limb that betrayed him. As soon as he stepped foot on it, agony exploded up through his thigh and into the rest of his body like a spreading fire. It was blinding, and Taylor on his left side was all that stopped him from otherwise collapsing when he tried desperately to find balance in his other leg. Taylor pushed on, half-carrying Anduin with him, and managed to clear what remained of the alcove's crumbling entrance, reentering the adjacent tunnel. The dragon snarled and the cavern shook hard enough to throw both captain and prince to the stone floor. Anduin was lucky, able to throw his arms forward and break most of the fall, whereas Taylor got twisted in the descent and landed hard on his side, setting fire to nearly every wound in his body. The fall sent Taylor's crossbow clattering across the floor, where it became stuck between two rocks.

The cavern continued to tremble as the dragon made its approach. Anduin didn't think, he just grabbed the crossbow and rolled onto his back. He took aim at the dragon's massive head and fired, slashing through the monster's scaled jaw and lodging the bolt in the joint between there and the rest of the skull. A wave of blood spilled over the earthen floor.

The dragon shrieked and thrashed in pain, quaking the mountain further. Its foot fell hardly a yard from Anduin, serrating the floor as it drew back. Anduin sucked in a breath, trying to move away, but his leg cinched at the exertion and anchored him in place. A wall exploded as the dragon's tail smashed into it, and furious, its claw struck out.

For a moment, Anduin thought that was it, but bones crunched and he knew they weren't his. The mangled noise that followed didn't register at first, as Anduin willed his vision, blurred with fear, to sharpen. It was only when he heard the smashing of steel that Anduin realized. He looked up, his sight only a narrow tunnel that seemed unable to pick out more than a couple details at once, and barely recognized Taylor's form trapped under the dragon's talons before its other foot swiped at Anduin, who could do nothing and was knocked with the crossbow toward a ledge that opened up into a lower section of the caverns.

The crossbow tumbled off the side and disappeared, while Anduin's hands scrambled for purchase on the shuddering floor, but the sharp rocks tore into his palms and fingertips, turning slippery as he bled. His legs lost contact with the floor altogether, signaling he'd reached the edge, and desperately he found a protruding stone that he could anchor his arms to. His upper body shook from the strain, but every time he tried to move an arm to find something to grab, he slipped deeper toward the drop below. There was a heavy splash and his eyes shot up, barely catching the spray of blood in midair before it dyed the cavern wall red.

"Captain—!" he yelled, shrill, but even speaking seemed to pull him closer to the fall.

Hellfire broke out from around the corner, and Anduin screwed up his whole face and ducked his head away. The force of the heat was the last push, and finally Anduin's weak hold on the ledge couldn't last. The stone came out from underneath him, and for a split moment all he saw was red fire.

Then nothing.

———Last Seed 31st———

"I should be with them."

Katrana spared a glance at the king, who stared from a window west of the long stretch of stairs leading up to Dragonsreach. He watched Bolvar usher the Dragonborn and a dozen of his soldiers to the Temple of Kynareth, where they would fetch Velen and depart for Riverwood. Their silhouettes, bled of detail from this distance, disappeared into the city, leaving Varian with just the memory of them conversing on the steps moments before.

Katrana didn't smile. She turned her head away, continuing her previous work. Since Deathwing's appearance, all of the court wizard's usual responsibilities had been shouldered by others. Varian needed her for her knowledge regarding the dragon, and that was the only thing he wanted her to work on. She didn't object.

"We've been over this," she said finally. "Whiterun needs their king in Dragonsreach."

"My son needs me out there," Varian hissed to the window.

"Have you forgotten who you're sending in your stead?" she asked. "Highlord Fordragon, the prophet Velen, a troop of soldiers and the legendary Dov Ah Kiin. At this point, my king, you wouldn't be much more than overkill."

The king scoffed. "Overkill," he echoed sorely.

"You give the dragon too much credit," Katrana said. "He is, at the end of the day, just a beast."

Varian finally spared her a glance, crooking his eyebrow. "You're the last person I would expect to say such a thing."

She shrugged. "If an instructor of Restoration magic could wound him enough that he would need to recuperate in a lair, then I've lost some respect for him."

He could hear it in her voice, though; she hadn't. Not really.

"It doesn't matter," he said, facing the window again. "This is on the brink of cowardly, staying in Dragonsreach while my people set out to do my work for me."

"It is not just Prince Anduin you have an obligation to, my king," Katrana said. "Whiterun may still lose their prince. They can't afford to lose their king too."

"Don't say that," he growled.

Katrana grimaced. Say what, the honest truth? Anduin Wrynn was alive, according to Velen, but there was still a lot standing between him and rescue. If Varian was too naive to account for or at least admit it, fine, but Katrana would not fall prey to the same wishful thoughts.

"But..." Varian sighed, a grudge in his voice. "Perhaps you have a point."

She smirked falsely, still annoyed, but she hid it well. "No one wants to see the Wrynn name disappear in flames, myself least of all."

Varian breathed deep, staring at the window for a moment longer. He turned away, distracting himself with the documents Katrana had scattered across her work table. "What's all this?"

"Research," she said. "I might be making an unfavorable request shortly."

Varian crooked an eyebrow hard. "I'm listening."

"I'm developing a theory on where the dragon came from, but in order to look into it, I'll need to take a trip beyond Whiterun."

The king understood then. "You're leaving me locked up in Dragonsreach too."

She smiled wide, wrinkling her eyes only to emphasize her amusement. "Like Prince Anduin's rescue, it is for a good cause."

Varian sighed again. "What do you hope to find?"

"An empty grave."

"A grave?"

"There are burial sites scattered across Skyrim, my king. Some are notably said to contain the bones of dragons, not nords." Katrana thumbed through the pages of one of her books, then turned it to Varian. "It sounds outlandish, but I almost wonder if some necromancy is at play."

The king perched his hands on the table and looked down at the book. It depicted a drawing of one of the burial sites Katrana mentioned, and the paragraphs below it discussed legends of the dragon supposedly buried there.

"So then," he paused, thinking. "You believe dragons _were_ extinct?"

"Perhaps," Katrana said. "It's either that, or Deathwing simply dwelled beneath the earth for centuries, like a glorified gopher." She put a finger to her chin, eyeing the ceiling thoughtfully. "Although dragons _are_ immortal, so it's possible."

Varian breathed out; the sound even resembled a laugh. Katrana smiled again.

"If you'll let me go," she said, "I believe I can bring back answers to the questions everyone in Skyrim is asking."

He looked at her for a long, quiet moment. "When are you hoping to leave?"

"Not for a while yet," she said. "I still have research to do, and, I hope to see the Dragonborn's return from Bleak Falls."

He nodded and stood straight again. "Very well. You have my leave."

Katrana dipped her head in a gracious bow. "You're very kind, my king."

"Kind," he laughed again. "I'm not used to that one."

"Don't sell yourself short," she smirked from her bow.

He smirked back, though the trace of doubt remained. He turned from the table, gave the window one last glance, then started for the door. "Come find me if you learn more."

"At once, your majesty."

He exited the room after that. Katrana held her bow for a moment longer, then looked up, her smirk spreading. Kind, naive King Varian. She hadn't lied, she couldn't afford to lose a man like that. She returned to her work, considering the burial grounds she hoped to set out for in the coming days. Now that she had permission to go, she just had to _find_ the great tombs. It was difficult though, because after centuries, their exact whereabouts were lost to time's everlasting habit of gorging itself on records of the past. The process had been frustrating, and she still didn't have much to show for her effort. Hopefully, she could scrape together enough to at least get started.

A sharp pain struck her eye; Katrana winced and glanced at the window. The sun was creeping higher in the sky, now piercing through the glass and setting fire to the flakes of hidden color showering her. Under the sun's scrutiny, her orange-brown eyes crackled shades of gold, and streams of purple glowed like the wakes of flying stars in her midnight hair. The warmth of the rays revealed something that Skyrim's overcasted sky and the high ceiling of Dragonsreach alike usually concealed. Something secret, something even the truthful light couldn't quite unravel.

She frowned and drew the curtains shut, muting the traces of otherness once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [dragon translations](http://textuploader.com/x6af)
> 
> in which the timeline hops around a little because sometimes writing scenes in chronological order doesn't quite work out with how you want to introduce stuff. :/ it'll settle down in a chapter or two... these last couple chapters are uh, actually why i decided to include dates in the scene transitions. granted uh, _tamriel_ dates, but, dates. [here's a calendar](http://www.uesp.net/wiki/Lore:Calendar#Skyrim_Calendar)?
> 
> in other news i think wrathion's new dagger is hilarious and over the next several chapters you're going to find out just how hilarious i think it is.


	6. Slen Tiid Vo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **content warnings:** blood, burns, death/dead bodies, dismemberment mention, beheading mention

Chapter 6: Slen Tiid Vo  
"Unbound Flesh"

———Last Seed 30th———

The sense of scarce oxygen, consumed by a numbing heat, had at some point drifted from the surface of Anduin's skin. Now in its place was dampness, and the chilled breath of stirring air pulling his awareness from one corner of his body to the next. He wasn't sure how long it was before sight joined his other hazy senses, but he could make out the shadows of the ceiling high above him. He recognized the ledge he'd fallen from. Something small and red dripped from above into his eye. He winced and brought a hand up, brushing a wetness from his cheekbone. When he pulled it back, he recognized it for what it was: cold blood.

Anduin shot upright and his body scolded him for it. All the old, waning bruises he'd received in Helgen and upon his arrival on the mountain rose from their long rests, aching and throbbing all over him. He groaned, but dared not lay down again. Instead, while he waited for the pain to pass, he tried to recall what'd happened. He still remembered the suffocating constraint of the dragon's breath filling up the caverns, so it wasn't hard to remember it'd found him and Taylor as well.

Another drop of blood struck his nose. He lurched back, rubbing it away again, but he remembered the wall that'd been sprayed moments after Taylor was dragged out of Anduin's sight. He looked up and could see, albeit barely, the small pool of blood dripping off the ledge. It was like his heart slipped from its perch in his chest. The captain couldn't be...

He shook his head, which only hurt him, and took a look at his surroundings. The fall from the higher level was a good ways up—he wasn't surprised it'd done such a number on his existing bruises. Looking himself over, it didn't seem to have done much else, thankfully. He saw a stream nearby, which looked to be the same one that emptied out of the alcove he'd spent the last twelve days in. Was it even still twelve? Or thirteen—or however many since Helgen? How long had he been unconscious? Maybe it didn't matter. The stream followed a narrow tunnel, though. Perhaps a means out of this hole.

Anduin sighed, to the protest of his aching ribs and back. He thought to ease the pains with some quick magic, and went to retrieve his amulet for this endeavor, but it wasn't around his neck. It took him a moment to remember he'd taken it off, and it was likely lost in the commotion with the dragon. His heart sank with the revelation, but he had to remind himself of bigger problems.

He pulled his good leg closer, then tentatively did the same with his right, gripping the mostly unharmed thigh. It still hurt worse than any of his other injuries, but if he could just get to his feet, the wall would suffice fine in its absence. He spent a moment to heal it with what little magic he had. It seemed he couldn't easily recuperate when he was this weak, and so could only manage a small numbing sensation. It'd have to do. He looked around again for something to haul himself up, but found Taylor's crossbow first. He remembered he'd seen it fall into the drop too. He had no ammunition for it, but he leaned carefully on his left side and managed to draw it over anyway, sliding the strap onto his shoulder. He tucked his bad leg underneath him and stood on his other knee with the help of the wall, clenching his teeth so tight that they slipped and an unpleasant grinding sensation surged around his jaw. The wall was jagged enough that he could grip it and pull up with his arms, fumbling his left foot on the floor until he found purchase.

He sighed again, right leg bent well off the ground, and waited for his bruises to settle. Maybe he should have stayed where he was, at least for a while, but he'd done plenty of staying put already. Now Taylor was gone as well. It was perhaps naive, but he hoped, somehow, he could find the captain and still get him out of here. That was the other thing—Anduin didn't want to spend another second in this bleak cavern and wait for that dragon to hunt him down again. He swallowed and, slowly, made his way along the wall, following the stream. The tunnel it poured along was narrow and low to his head, and there was rarely a dry place to stand. Coupled with only one good foot and the resulting hops he had to utilize just to move, it seemed very possible he'd only hurt himself further. But if the dragon had torn up the caverns once, it would again, and it'd sniff him out down here just as it had up there.

The tunnel took a steady decline, making the entire journey that much more perilous. Anduin slowed down as it descended closer and closer to a vertical drop, his breaths shallow as he focused on not slipping and as his energy waned. To his luck, the tunnel also got wider and taller. The water spread out as well, but it was thinner, and he hoped it made falling less likely.

He was wrong, of course, and the moment he let his guard down, his good foot landed wrong on a shiny rock and flew out from under him. He fell backwards, to his slight relief, but the impact sent him sliding through the tunnel until the floor jutted back up as a flat surface. He saw it coming, at least, and managed to tuck his right leg out of the way. The force that fired up his left was not pleasant, but even as he gasped out against the pain, he found he was just grateful it hadn't been the mangled, blackened limb on his right. Eventually, his chest unclenched and he could breathe clearly again. He looked up at his new surroundings, now exposed to a huge, high cavern. Sunlight rained in from prominent cracks in the earthen ceiling, lighting up a peculiar sight.

Most of the chamber was just more wild cavern, but like the signs of architecture he'd seen from the alcove, there was a structure buried in centuries here as well. Anduin squinted at the huge sight. Stairs, it seemed, led up to a huge stone platform where the backmost side, pushed out from the inner mountain, was sculpted out and carved into an enormous wall. The way the light fell upon it was surreal, almost heavenly, yet something very cold passed through Anduin as he stared on.

He shifted, and kicked something. When he glanced toward it he almost yelped; a skeleton, still strung together by festering flesh, laid in shambles beside him. He recognized the damaged plate scattered among the bones: Whiterun steel. It was one of his guards.

Anduin swallowed.

Clutched in the corpse's still-fleshy hand was a long, two-handed hammer—a heavy weapon, though the iron head was snapped from its sturdy handle. A thought crossed Anduin's mind, one he instantly felt guilty for, but he reminded himself the soldier wouldn't need the weapon any longer. He drew a breath and took the handle, tugging it from the guard's rigid grip.

"Sorry," he whispered, his voice unrecognizably hoarse.

It was a bit too long, but better that than too short. With it, Anduin was able to rise to his feet again—once more tucking his right leg off the floor—and shoulder his weight on the haft. The stairs would be a challenge to ascend, but there was something unearthly about the structure in front of him. Frankly, for as bad a time as it was, he found himself curious. So he managed, although it was painful, but the platform up top was ideal for his condition. It was large, actually—maybe not enough to support the dragon, but there was quite a lot of room for Anduin. The floor almost resembled ice, but the cracks tearing through it like small ravines gave it away as sculpted stone. To his left was some large container—an ancient casket, it looked like. Time itself had melded the top and bottom together, and even from the opposite side of the platform, Anduin could see he wouldn't be opening it, not that he had any desire to.

He was curious about the things piled upon the table left of the coffin, though. Bottles of what he assumed was once liquid, now mummified and glued to the inner glass. His throat crawled, but it was in some odd way pretty. There were books too, though they looked as though they'd burst into dust if he touched them. And among all that was what really caught his attention.

Anduin limped closer to the table and laid his hand over a filthy tablet, perched in a stand, as old and weathered as the rest of the tabletop contents. It certainly looked manmade, although until he blew a huge cloud of dust off the surface, he thought the crevices upon it were the result of age. But its scars were intentional, intricate little marks he still couldn't quite make sense of. He flipped it over to find writing—or, it looked like writing, but the language was like nothing he'd ever seen before. Except... No, it did look familiar. Where had he seen this?

When he looked up, his question was instantly answered. The huge wall had very similar letters engraved upon it. Anduin glanced at the tablet in his hand and tucked it under his arm, then took up the hammer haft and hobbled to the wall. As he got close, though, that same uncomfortable chill ran through his bones. He shivered and slowed down, stopping before the wall. It was huge; high above him were delicate, spiraling patterns gilded in gold, and a huge carving in the center, accented with black stones, that reminded him of the monstrous dragon's head. The use of assembled stones mimicked scales rather well. It was beautiful, but given the circumstances, terribly unnerving. Perhaps that was what sent the chill through him.

Anduin glanced at the tablet again. The same dragon head was etched into the bottom of the stone. What was this place? He felt like he'd just fallen into a pocket of ancient history. The cold wave came again and he shivered, looking up. Something about the words at his eye level bothered him. He tucked the tablet under his other arm, the one wielding his makeshift staff, and ran his left hand over the engravings. The chill fired up from his arm, and with it, the vague sense of something pushing against him, like a strong wind. He hadn't been mistaken, there was magic interlaced in these words. But what—

The chamber shook. Anduin's eyes shot up to the ceiling, then back behind him just as he caught the sound of deep rumbling. His heart launched into his throat, at least kind enough to stifle a noise, as a hulking, angular shadow appeared in the far tunnel leading out of the chamber. Anduin's hand left the wall, and the cold, pushing magic abandoned him as he fumbled across the platform toward the casket. He ducked behind it, on the opposite side from the approaching shadow; the stone was chilled and contrasted sharply with his anxiously hot blood. For a moment, Anduin dared not look. He heard the earth shudder and give at the arrival of the dragon, grumbling and breathing, filling the chamber with that humid, putrid breath the prince was quickly coming to dread. He thought to flee—he could drop off the platform to the cavern floor if he was careful—and made the first twitch to do so, but his leg was aching and rigid from fear. He gasped soundlessly and shut his mouth, leaning back against the casket. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the pain to settle.

The dragon passed the casket and went to the wall; Anduin knew because the earth shook harder and harder with every step it took until it all stopped. He pressed his back to the coffin and could hear everything from its rugged breaths to the gurgling lava pooled beneath its hide. There was a thud of steel. Anduin jumped, heart pounding in his throat, but his stomach dropped as an ugly realization weighed down on him. He shifted, despite every part of himself urging him not to even think, but he ignored it and moved to the edge of the casket, peering out onto the platform. His fear was confirmed: Captain Taylor's tarnished body laid at the feet of the dragon, whose hind claws clung to the edge of the platform as its great body barely fit upon it. The captain was unmoving and either red with blood or white with pallor. Anduin wanted to cry out. He swallowed instead.

A snarl hit his ears like a wave. Anduin ducked back, but the dragon only hissed in resigned annoyance. The prince watched as it reached up and plucked out the bolt Anduin had fired into its jaw, growling at the pain. It flicked the arrow aside; Anduin saw it skitter across the floor. It got caught in a crack not far from him. He glanced up at the dragon again, distracted with kicking Taylor's unresponsive body across the platform toward the wall, and quickly reached out to retrieve the bolt. He hid behind the casket again and held his breath. The dragon hadn't seen him; but now, at least, he had a shot, so to speak.

A startling voice spoke out, rattling Anduin's bones just as the dragon's growls would rattle the mountain. Anduin composed himself and tried to listen, but it was all nonsense to him. He didn't know more than a handful of words in the dragon language, and half the words he did know were just the ones that composed the word for Dragonborn. It was an interesting fact Lady Katrana had taught him once. She had pointed out to him that, while 'dragon born' certainly sounded noble, the word could be read as the cruder 'Dov Ah Kiin', which she prettied up to something like 'born hunter of dragons'.

But none of that really helped him here.

He struggled to make out the sounds anyway—why, he wasn't sure. What good would it do him if he didn't know what they meant? But the dragon enunciated something slower, purposefully, and Anduin managed to pick it up.

" **Slen** , **Tiid Vo**!"

The chamber shuddered, forcing Anduin to grip the coffin for support. It was utterly different than the dragon's usual roaring; he wasn't sure how, but something about this was magic. He braced himself, again defying the orders of his own mind, and peered back out onto the platform. He sucked in a breath, but fortunately, the noise of the quaking chamber washed his voice out. Taylor's flesh was stripped clean from him, cleaner than the skeleton Anduin had kicked before—the bones were purely white, almost pearly. In fact, he was certain they were glowing, and somehow he feared it wasn't just the sunbeams pouring in from the ceiling. It was as if the flesh had burned away, yet there wasn't a trace of charring.

The dragon had turned from Taylor's body; its tail swept idly back and forth over the corpse. Anduin swallowed, then crawled to the other end of the casket to see. A fiery light resembling Taylor's illuminated bones swirled in the dragon's mouth. Anduin stared, mortified, but utterly fascinated. He heard a distant part of the cavern floor crack violently and ducked back. The towering walls quivered at the destruction. Anduin's fingers dug against the casket, struggling to see, but the platform's edge blocked his view. He nearly moved when a horrible sound reached him.

A dragon's voice.

It wasn't the one on the platform with him—he glanced at it thrice, trying to convince himself the echo of the chamber had only made it seem like it came from elsewhere, but there was no mistake. A second dragon had called out, and Anduin watched as, from beyond the edge of the platform, huge black wings rose up, debris spilling off the webbing. Its head followed; it was smaller than the one that'd attacked Helgen, and it had fewer horns, but that hardly mattered. It was a dragon— _another_ dragon. Where did it come from? Within the mountain? But how— _why_?

Anduin's mind raced. The smaller dragon shook itself out, groaning like it'd awoken from a long, deep sleep. Had it? It said something, not that the prince knew what, but it sounded hoarse. Was it weak? The bigger, volcanic dragon replied. Anduin felt like he'd pass out, but he couldn't afford to. He thought to shoot the smaller, possibly weaker one with the crossbow, but instantly dismissed the idea. He just needed to get away from here. His body shook and his breaths were shallow. He backed up, toward the huge wall of alien words, and eventually turned away from the pair of dragons entirely. His heart felt like it was going to explode, or jump out of his mouth. He found a tunnel that led away from the chamber, atop a wearing stone staircase, but it was to his left off the platform, well within sight from where the two dragons were still talking. It was his only way out though. He couldn't stay here, and he _couldn't_ risk them catching a whiff of him.

He breathed in, his leg already hurting at the thought of scaling the long flight of stairs. But if he was just careful, and very quiet, maybe—

An explosive sound brought his entire body to a halt. Everything from his thoughts to his heart stopped. It was just a moment of sudden loudness, then an aching silence. Anduin almost breathed again when a crash sounded; stone striking stone. He didn't peer out to try and figure out what it was. He just held still, hoping somehow, everything wasn't about to go wrong.

Something breathed.

It was a hoarse, chilling voice. Anduin's blood froze. It hadn't been either of the dragons, he realized, because it'd come from right behind him. From within the casket. Slowly, Anduin lifted his head, and the first thing he noticed was the coffin's lid was gone. That's what had burst into the air and crashed. Then, something horrible rose into view. A body—a festering corpse, putrid in sight and smell. Its eyes burned a frigid blue, armor rotten and misshapen against its gaunt build.

Of course, because he hadn't had _enough_ of draugr.

It was like a living nightmare, when Anduin hoped within his own mind that it wouldn't turn toward him and that's exactly what it did. Its eyes, loose in its skull, moved slowly from Anduin's face to the tablet tucked in his arm. The light rising off its stare flared, and in the same moment, they both realized Anduin should never have touched the stone.

It said something—words similar to the ones the dragons had used. Did it understand their language? Anduin didn't know what it said, but while it was just staring at him—albeit furiously—he hoped perhaps there was a chance still.

He breathed in and shifted, about to speak. The draugr did first.

" **Fus**!"

A force struck Anduin. It looked to be no more than wind, but the sheer strength of the impact felt like a huge creature had tackled him. It knocked him back just a foot too far, and the platform came out from under him. Before he could think not to, he yelled out as he fell. The cavern floor was not any kinder to him than the strange magic had been, firing pain through every bruise in his body. His leg burned, and for a split second he wished he could rip it off and be done with it.

He groaned out, rolling onto his left side. He vaguely registered the sound of the draugr climbing out of the casket to pursue him, and he knew he needed to get away. He forced open his eyes and looked up, relocating the staircase he'd seen before. He pulled his left arm out from underneath him and pushed up on it; he nearly did the same with his right, but realized the stone tablet was still there. What _was_ this thing? He didn't care right now. He scrambled to grab the hammer haft, thankfully having not fallen more than a couple feet from him, and pulled himself up. He didn't care about being quiet, the draugr had already seen him, and made quite the ruckus to boot. He took a step in just a knick of time; a rotted blade came swinging past him, nearly slicing him in half. He looked back and wished he hadn't. The draugr was chasing him, armed with a sword. It said something, but there was too much blood rushing in Anduin's ears to make out the sounds.

So he ran for the staircase, relying far too much on the haft. He wished repeatedly that he didn't have to, but his leg hurt no matter what he did, and it'd be worse without it. He heard the creature shouting more words but paid it no mind as he reached the first step. He was forced to slow down as he made the ascent, clinging to the haft. He looked up. It was a long flight from down here.

One of the dragons' voices shouted after him.

Anduin nearly lost his balance, but the sound of the dragon launching into the air made his grip tighten on the haft instead. A burst of strength fired through every muscle in him and he sped up, disoriented by the rushing adrenaline. He felt the wind sweep over him as the dragon neared, but a booming voice from below came forth and the dragon cried out, startled. Wretched heat replaced the wind, sending a renewed agony through Anduin's leg especially, enough to make him yell out and fall against the stairs. He heard the dragon _whoosh_ aside and dared to glance back; it was the smaller one, smoke rising from its dark scales. It didn't seem affected by the burns, only annoyed. It tried to swoop close again, but the larger flew up, blocking it from Anduin as it shouted guttural words at the lesser dragon. The prince didn't wonder why and didn't care, he just rose to his hands and feet, scurrying up the stairs. He used his right leg, though every step it took blinded him with near insufferable pain. He staved off complete blackness and disappeared into the small tunnel as the larger dragon—the one that had flown between him and the smaller—swept its claws at him, blowing wind against him and threatening his balance.

He didn't slow down, though, even once in the passage. He pulled himself up to his feet with the wall and fumbled to fix his grip on the haft, putting it in place of his excruciating leg as he hurried through. The mountain shook around him, dust raining on him from the low ceiling, but he didn't stop. Eventually, the snarling of dragons became distant and ultimately quiet. After, the tunnel stopped shivering. Anduin's strength gave and he collapsed. He lay flat on the jagged floor, gasping, every inch of him either aching or burning. He didn't know how long it'd taken him to open his eyes. He wondered, for a moment, what he'd just witnessed, but found himself too weak to think about it for long. He closed his eyes again. He took a deep breath, feeling short of it, and sighed hard at his body's frantic demand. He didn't know how long he laid there, but he found himself coming to repeatedly, as if he'd nearly passed out several times.

Then, he heard bones rattling.

Anduin's eyes shot open as realization struck him. With another rush of adrenaline, he pushed himself up on his hands, glancing back. The dragons couldn't fit through the tunnel, but the _draugr_ could. Anduin fumbled to collect the haft and tablet, rising to his feet and hobbling through the cavern. He hurried into a shallow alcove and tucked himself against the wall, sliding to the floor. He panted as quietly as he could, until the draugr was close and he held his breath, hoping his aching lungs would let him do so long enough. It appeared from around the corner, but didn't see him yet. Anduin stared, praying that this time it wouldn't know.

The seconds drew on. The draugr continued stalking through the main tunnel, away from the alcove, the slight reflection of its glowing eyes slowly fading off the walls. Eventually, it was gone. Anduin slumped, breathing again. He adjusted his arms on the tablet held to his chest; the one the creature had surely been after. His eyes closed again, but he knew he wasn't at risk of passing out this time. The creature had shocked the exhaustion out of him.

He took a breath in, sat up and shrugged the crossbow off his shoulder, fitting it with the single bolt he had recovered at the wall. Something horrible was happening on this mountain, something he couldn't explain, but he couldn't be caught. He couldn't be turned into another pile of bones before he got out of here.

Whiterun needed to know about this.

 _Skyrim_ needed to know.

———Last Seed 31st———

Wrathion woke with a start. His vision blurred and his first instinct was to Shout away whatever great creature was staring at him. Instead he blinked and recognized the beast to be a horse; the noise that had jolted him awake was a whinny, he realized, and he glowered at the unsightly creature. Its mount, none other than Highlord Bolvar, laughed hard but only twice at Wrathion's expression.

"She didn't mean to wake you, Dragonborn," he assured.

Wrathion allowed himself an indignant hiss, then composed himself, popping the stiffness out of his neck. He opened an eye and saw a Whiterun guard saddled in front of him. Wrathion squinted, briefly forgetting how he'd wound up sharing one of the horses. Simply put, his mount hadn't taken to him. His shoulders still ached from the drop after the creature had bucked him off. Horses didn't seem _that_ tall until he was tumbling off one, he'd noted. 'Apparently' he'd made the thing nervous by being frightened of it himself.

That was ridiculous, of course.

He rubbed his face, groaning to himself. He must have passed out during the ride. Maybe that wasn't surprising after traveling by foot all day yesterday and then being dragged all through the night to Whiterun. He felt a wetness on the corner of his chin. He made a face, examining the clear liquid on his thumb before glancing at the matching wet spot on the soldier's tabard. Wrathion cleared his throat. Perhaps no one would notice.

"We'll have to make the rest of the journey by foot," Bolvar said to the regiment, having moved away.

Wrathion glanced over at him, then at his surroundings. Oh, they were on the edge of Riverwood. It was early afternoon, just as Bolvar had predicted. Wrathion looked up and spotted the mountaintop he was certain must've been Bleak Falls; the dark, angular structure jutting out of the peak reminded him of a similar description someone had offered during the trip. Yes, he recognized the mountain from when he'd seen it from a different angle at Fort Graymoor.

The soldier in front of him hopped off the horse, tying its reins to a post. Wrathion shifted, then paused. He glanced at a few other dismounting soldiers, subtly studying them, before wrinkling his nose and trying to mimic what he'd seen. He dropped off and would have landed on his rear of Bolvar hadn't caught him under the arms.

"Easy does it," he teased.

Wrathion jerked his arms free, straightening his tabard. "Don't patronize me."

The highlord swallowed back a laugh. Wrathion's lip curled anyway. He was regretting accepting the nord king's 'resources'.

Some worried commotion kicked up behind them. Bolvar and Wrathion both turned, and found two soldiers helping Velen down from his own horse. Wrathion growled; Bolvar only frowned.

"Prophet," the highlord said, "are you certain you can ascend the mountain in your condition?"

Velen waved off the two helping him, but he was visibly shaken by his own weakness. "I promised the Dragonborn my assistance."

"You won't be doing me any favors if I have to return to King Wrynn with an apology for letting you drop dead," Wrathion grumbled.

Bolvar made a brief scowl at the Dragonborn, then softened for Velen again. "Even so, there've been enough casualties at the hand of this dragon. We needn't lose you as well, Prophet."

Velen looked troubled, and a bit conflicted. He considered Bolvar's words before speaking. "What of Anduin?"

"We will find Prince Anduin," Bolvar assured. He even sounded confident. "Even if we must do so without you."

Still, Velen was unsure. Wrathion craned his head back, groaning audibly at the sky to make sure they both heard it.

"Consider this, Prophet," he said, looking at Velen. "You hoped you could better sense your prince once you were closer to Bleak Falls. Can you?"

Velen looked at him, then lowered his head, concentrating. "Yes," he said, a bit hesitant. "Yes, it's clearer here."

"Good," Wrathion chimed insincerely. "Now, without looking, tell me which direction he's in."

The prophet focused for another moment, then pointed west. "I feel him there."

"Straight toward the barrow!" Wrathion said. He clapped once. "I very much doubt he's beyond the mountain, so he must be _in_ it. That's help enough, wouldn't you say?"

Velen looked at him again and frowned. "Still," he said. "I could sense him even clearer if I were with you."

"That comes at great risk to your life," Wrathion said, "and by extension my head, should King Wrynn decide to follow through with his outburst. He was very clear with his instructions regarding you, Prophet."

"Rest here in Riverwood," Bolvar said, a certain harshness in his voice that Wrathion sensed was meant for him. "You've already done a great service for Whiterun. Without you, we would still fear for Prince Anduin's fate."

 _Don't speak too soon,_ was all Wrathion could think. He restrained himself from saying so.

Velen sighed, but his body shuddered as though it ached to do even that. The opportunity to rest on the way to Riverwood had done him few favors, despite Bolvar's hope. The prophet glanced at the mountain to the west, well above the village. It would indeed be a difficult ascent for him to make, and the way his body surrendered to his aches was evidence enough that he knew so.

"Perhaps you're right," he said regretfully.

"With that out of the way," Wrathion said, annoyed as he eyed something off to the side, "let's get back to business."

"Don't trouble yourself, Prophet," Bolvar said. "It's still comforting that you've come. When we return from the barrow, we may need your expertise."

Velen smiled then, and truly relaxed some. "I eagerly await your return. Please, be safe."

"Thank you, Prophet," Bolvar said. "On behalf of all of us. Even the Dragonborn."

"Hah," Wrathion growled.

"You two," Bolvar said, gesturing at a pair of soldiers, "help the prophet settle at the tavern in town. We'll wait for you."

The soldiers obliged, leading Velen into Riverwood. Bolvar watched after them, while Wrathion had fixated on the mountain again. It hadn't looked like much from Fort Graymoor, but standing here at its feet, perhaps it could make a decent lair for a dragon after all. It remained interesting to him that Velen had wounded it so—wait.

"Prophet," Wrathion spoke up, tilting his head toward the three. His eyes remained on Bleak Falls.

Velen stopped, glancing back at him. "Yes, Dragonborn?"

"I'm told you wounded him," he said. "The dragon. How?"

"Ah," Velen said with a laugh.

A _laugh_? Wrathion eyed him. As if this was some silly question. The nerve the people of Skyrim had when it came to dragons, honestly.

"I believe I did," the prophet continued. "He had retreated shortly after."

"What did you do to him?"

Velen smiled, keenly amused. "You're far from the first to question how a Restoration mage fights, Dragonborn."

Wrathion snapped his mouth closed. Velen sighed, considering something, then approached a few steps. He held both hands in front of him, palms up, and bowed his head. For a long, anticipating moment, the prophet concentrated. Something in the air bothered Wrathion; his skin felt chilled, goose bumps running down his arms. The urge to move away took hold of him, and it was insistent, but he resisted it.

Then, light burst forth in Velen's hands. Wrathion shrunk back, though his feet never left their places. The light flared, crackling with saintly whites and golds, until it settled into a calm but irrefutably dangerous sphere. It hovered like a small sun in Velen's grasp, tranquil under his command. It was tame; loyal to him. Yet the urge to move away tugged at Wrathion still, as if it would strike out. As if it would do terrible things to him, things that betrayed its heavenly air.

"By the Nine," Bolvar whispered. He was enthralled, not remotely wary of the spell.

"They call it Vampire's Bane," Velen said. A sweat had broken out on his brow, but he smiled fondly at the sun-like sphere in his hands. "Though I found out in Helgen, it's not just vampires it affects. When I struck the dragon with this spell, he reeled. An illuminated wound penetrated his chest."

Wrathion understood then—or at least, he understood more than he had before. He closed his mouth again, straightening. He braced his face; he didn't smile nor frown. He only observed the spell with an air of apathy, sealing the tiny traces of unease deep within himself where no one would see.

"Fascinating," he said, deadpan. He clucked his tongue. It was a mounting shame the prophet was too injured to come with them. He proved, repeatedly, to be valuable.

"This is a very powerful spell, but I would suppose others like it might hurt the dragon as well," Velen said. "Highlord, what do you know of sun magic?"

"Some," Bolvar said. "Perhaps enough to give this dragon a bad time."

Velen smiled again. "Anduin knows some as well."

Bolvar nodded, relieved with this. "I'll be sure to tell him, if he's able."

The light disappeared like a suffocated flame from Velen's hands. Wrathion narrowed his eyes. He felt the flaring bruises in his shoulders begin to settle as he relaxed. He didn't like the uncertainty looming around this 'sun magic'. He'd have to look into it another time. It didn't matter for now, he assured himself.

The two guards Bolvar had sent returned to Velen's sides, urging him back toward Riverwood. Bolvar nodded his farewell to the prophet, then spared a glance at Wrathion. The Dragonborn was focused on Bleak Falls again. Bolvar studied him in silence for a moment. He was arrogant, that was hard to dispute, but there was something about the way he observed the mountain that put Bolvar's nerves at ease. Somehow, he could simply tell this stranger, warped in the very gossip he instigated, would see through his mission here.

The only uncertainty left in the highlord now was how much of Wrathion's mission aligned with King Varian's. How out of his way would the Dragonborn go for Prince Anduin?

Bolvar set his jaw. It didn't matter, he decided. The prince would be brought home with or without Wrathion's help.

A ghostly sensation bloomed on the edges of Bolvar's mind; he startled, for a moment wondering if he'd heard someone speak, but quickly came to his senses. Wrathion detected his alarm and looked over as the highlord shuffled through his armor. He pulled a shiny device out and held it up. Wrathion didn't immediately recognize the golden, refurbished metal that made up the device, disk-like and slightly bulbous in shape, but when Bolvar opened up the curved door on the front, he did see a soul gem lodged carefully into place. It flickered to life before them, and the first thing they heard was paper crackling.

"What is that?" Wrathion hissed.

"Shh," Bolvar said, holding up a finger.

"So it works," came a voice, distorted by magic and perhaps distance.

Wrathion's head snapped back, reminiscent of a startled cat. That was the court wizard's voice.

"Lady Katrana," Bolvar said, his own expression only slightly less bewildered. "I see what that 'favor' was about now."

"Do you like it?" Katrana said, all charm and pride. "It's part-repurposed dwarven technology, part-Conjuration magic. Fascinating, isn't it?"

Wrathion's lip curled, frustrated with himself. The dwemer! How had he missed that?

He glanced at Bolvar. "'Favor'?" he repeated.

Bolvar looked back at him, but it was Katrana who answered. "I called him over before you left this morning so I could bind him to a soul gem; the one I have with me now. It allows a very small part of him to reach me here in Dragonsreach."

"And the vice versa is true here, I suppose," Wrathion said.

"Precisely," Katrana said. "I am with you in spirit, so to speak."

Still, something was odd about these devices. "So then," he spoke up, perhaps a bit too haughty himself, "how can you hear _me_? The shard should theoretically only recite Bolvar's own mind, not mine."

"Highlord Bolvar can hear you, can't he?" She sounded so pleased. "The soul gem I have here echoes his most prominent thoughts. Your questions come to me through the highlord, almost like translations."

"We heard your book earlier," Bolvar said.

"Yes, I was preoccupied with it while I waited for you to answer," she said. The pride remained all throughout. Clearly, she was delighted with the success of the device.

Wrathion shifted his jaw, but couldn't find the will to be annoyed. It was impressive.

"I thought the proposal you made in Dragonsreach was to keep in contact with me," he said instead. "So why link your device to the highlord?"

"He was more likely to actually cooperate with me," she teased.

 _Now_ he could be annoyed. He scoffed.

"What did you, er," Bolvar paused, struggling, "contact us for, Katrana?"

"For a test, primarily," she said, "and because King Varian itches for a report."

"We've arrived at Riverwood," Bolvar said. "Prophet Velen is in no condition to ascend the mountain, however. He's resting in town. We're about to start for Bleak Falls."

"Any word on my son?" Katrana asked.

Bolvar squinted. "Er, _your_ son?"

"Of King Varian's son," she corrected. "Translations, remember? The king asks, but it is my voice you hear."

The highlord gave a hurried nod, forgetting she couldn't see. "Of course," he said, embarrassed. "The prophet says he can sense Prince Anduin on the mountain. He's alive, but we don't know any more than that. He says the connection was clearer than what he'd felt in Helgen."

There was a slight grumble in Katrana's voice, too odd to really be hers. She did, however, speak up right after. "What of Deathwing, then?"

"No sign of the dragon," Bolvar said.

She hummed, thinking. "Very well. Is that all, my king?" she asked, directed elsewhere.

"For now," her voice came again, but it was Varian who spoke. "Make haste, Bolvar."

"Yes, your majesty," Bolvar answered, though his voice was tense. It was odd responding to Katrana's voice as his king's.

"I'll keep the guests to a minimum, Highlord," Katrana joked.

Bolvar could almost hear her smirking at him. "I'll report as soon as we get any new information."

"Good," she replied. Or was it Varian? "Good luck."

The tiny glow in the soul gem dimmed. Bolvar shook away the lingering confusion and put the device away. Wrathion's fingers flexed, eager, but he dismissed the urge to snatch the device and get a proper look. Later, perhaps. Bolvar sighed and glanced up the mountain.

"Don't look so flustered," Wrathion teased, earning the highlord's attention. "I need you at your best."

Bolvar flashed an insincere smile. "Don't worry about me, Dragonborn. Focus on the mission."

Wrathion gave a soft scoff. Which mission was that? Deathwing, or his prince? He didn't care. Wrathion had his priorities, and he would see them through. Skyrim could do with one less prince, but it could not with more dragons.

"Highlord," one of the soldiers piped up, "they're back."

Bolvar looked up and spotted the two soldiers returning. He nodded at them. "Good, then let's get moving. It won't be an easy journey from here on out."

Wrathion ground his teeth once, but said nothing. The ride had given him a chance to rest at long last, but he'd have to exert a lot of energy to reach Bleak Falls. The give and take was frustrating, but he could fuss about it later. There was work to do; he was on the brink of facing his first dragon in the flesh and proving himself to be precisely what he'd said he was all along.

He took a breath, steadying his shoulders, then started on the trail to Bleak Falls, humming the Rorikstead bard's song.

———Last Seed 31st———

The sun was high in the sky, only just beginning to drift west. Its heat beat down on the waving plains surrounding the towering city of Whiterun, but it competed with a soft, cold wind that chilled the Blacktalon agents' leather.

Clearing Fort Graymoor had taken time. It was brimming with wild bandits, not to mention armed to the teeth with traps. It was nothing the pair couldn't handle, but it was a slow process if they wanted it done sufficiently and without incident. After all, Wrathion wouldn't have been happy if they'd gotten hurt on their way to face a dragon, even though he wouldn't have been happy with how long it took them to clear the fort carefully either.

Upon returning, though, they hadn't needed to deal with either reaction. Both the Dragonborn and their captive Whiterun guard had gone missing. The only traces of them were footprints—two pairs too many to have been just theirs, so others had appeared. It seemed Wrathion was taken, despite there being four cooperative trails leading west. Left identified a small scuffle by the rock she'd parked Sharkbait on, suggesting a momentary disagreement.

It was a setback, to say the least. The agents had wanted to hope random bandits had given Wrathion trouble—perhaps even some from Fort Graymoor—but Left's scrutiny over the scuffle marks led her to believe Sharkbait had enlisted help in apprehending Wrathion. The nails in the coffin were that three of the four pairs of footprints matched in all but size; they were the same type of shoe, which meant the two newcomers were also Whiterun's. So with Wrathion most likely arrested, they had a clear idea of where he was, but it would take valuable time to remove him from the pits of Dragonsreach. Time the Dragonborn no doubt should have been using to find Deathwing.

Even with their assumption in mind, though, Left tracked the footprints carefully. Clumsy mistakes because of rushed action would just complicate the issue further, and there were already plenty of complications as it were.

Left stopped, glowering at the ground. Right paused a few paces ahead, glancing momentarily at the orc, then at the road. It wasn't hard to discern the problem: the tracks diverged into a busy street, disappearing in a sea of footprints that Left couldn't have hoped to untangle even with ample time at her disposal. The orc growled. Right only scoffed.

"We know he was arrested," she said.

Left looked up at Whiterun, thinking. Its walls overshadowed them, the gates a mere few minutes' walk from their place on the road's fork that splintered at the foot of a farmstead. She only grunted. Right continued along the road, and after two steps, Left followed.

"We'll ask around," Right said. "See what we can learn."

Whiterun was a bustling city; even the winding road leading up its feet was busy. It was a famous trade hub, understandably, given its lucky position in the heart of Skyrim. Crowds shifted and swirled through the streets, vendors announcing their goods over idle noise and banter. The city fell short only to Riften in terms of what gossip could be reaped from residents and travelers alike. Right met the eyes of a Whiterun helmet for only a moment, but the guard made no motion to stop her, so she and Left continued through the streets with ease.

Even with that, though, there was a certain tension in the air. If Right strained her ears, she could pick up several conversations about Helgen or dragons, even two weeks after the incident. Without a doubt, learning about the nature of the dragon attack would've been easier if she'd been closer to Whiterun when Wrathion sent her to look into it. But Rorikstead was small, and received delayed word because of it.

The agents made their way up the main street from Whiterun's front gate, entering into one of the central trading squares. A small well sat in the center, and dead ahead was a packed tavern. Stalls lined with food and equipment rounded the well, and it was cramped with people. Left's lip curled and teeth ground as shorter nords wiggled around her, though her weight hardly shifted even as the ruder ones pushed through her. Right whistled for her attention and skirted the worst of the crowd, slipping under an overhang that shaded the porch of a trader called Mullby's General Goods. Inside was a humble enough shop. A man swept the floorboards. The woman behind the counter smiled as the Blacktalons entered.

"Afternoon," she greeted.

Right nodded at her, eyeing the man. She privately nicknamed them Mister and Missus for convenience, as she had no interest in their names. "Noisy out there," she said.

Mister laughed; Missus smiled wider. "Sure is. More than usual, too. No one's quieted down since Helgen."

"Helgen," Right repeated, looking at Missus again. "Heard about that."

"It's a shame, isn't it?" she said, offering a sympathetic frown. "And to think a dragon's to blame. Can you really believe that?"

"Apparently King Wrynn can," Mister said. He laughed, but sounded more baffled than amused. "When I was out earlier, you know what I heard?"

"Oh Thurman, please," Missus said, "we have customers."

Right shifted her jaw, then nodded at Left. _Buy something._ Left stepped away from her to browse while Right fixed on Mister again. "The streets are running with rumors, I take it?"

"Oh, always," Mister grinned. "I thought maybe it'd quiet down after this long, but apparently that redguard's in town again."

Right feigned naiveté. "Redguard?"

"Yeah, haven't you heard of him?" Mister said. "I can't remember his name... Says he's Dragonborn, though."

Bingo. " _Dragonborn_?" she repeated, exaggerating the lift of her eyebrows.

"It's an old rumor that pops up from time to time," Missus said, sheepish. "Like a daisy. I guess with the recent appearance of a _dragon_ , though, it makes sense. Wishful thinking."

"Not according to what I heard," Mister said, though his voice remained skeptical. "People are saying they saw him go into the Temple of Kynareth. With _Highlord Fordragon_."

Even Left couldn't resist glancing at the man. Highlord was certainly not a title to sneeze at, but Left and Right both doubted this Fordragon would've been out and about in a place like Fort Graymoor. So how had he wound up with Wrathion?

"What makes you think King Wrynn believes in the dragon claims?" Right asked.

"Well," Mister said, leaning on his broomstick, "the highlord's been busy with Helgen since Whiterun got word of it, as far as I know. And if a supposed Dragonborn's in town, and if he's _really_ Dragonborn, they'd want him to work on Helgen too, right?"

"So the king sent them both," Right said.

"I dunno," Mister sighed. "I never saw the kid for myself. Could just be gossip."

"Where would they even go?" Right asked, pretending to be frustrated with the mystery. It wasn't entirely false. "Nobody's seen the dragon for weeks, and Helgen's still crawling with soldiers, isn't it? If it were there, someone would've seen it."

"Ah," Missus piped up, sucked into the banter, "I heard Deputy Willem returned."

"Willem?" Mister echoed, stunned. "Really? I thought for sure he perished with Prince Anduin and his regiment in Helgen."

Left and Right exchanged a glance. Sharkbait.

"Nope! Sole survivor," Missus said. "I bring it up because he said the dragon fled to some mountaintop west of Riverwood."

"Is that so?" Mister said.

"Mhm!" Missus nodded, then cupped her chin. "Let me think... Bah, I can't remember, but someone said the name of the peak. Apparently there's some old temple up there."

"Maybe the dragon's lairing there," Mister mused. "People saw a whole slew of soldiers march out of the city this morning. You think they're headed there, Edna?"

Missus shrugged. "Who knows? But if they've got that redguard child with them... maybe he really _is_ Dragonborn."

"Or they just hope he is," Mister scoffed.

Right glanced at Left again, who only nodded and set two batches of bolts on the counter. Missus jumped and smiled, accepting the wad of gold Left handed her before the agent took the batches and headed for the door. Right gave a casual gesture not unlike a salute to the pair, tailing her partner.

"Thanks," she said.

"Come again," Missus chimed.

The Blacktalons stepped out into the busy square. Left offered one of the batches to Right, who coupled the bolts with her existing stash on her hip.

"Riverwood?" Left asked.

"Riverwood," Right replied.

That was all they needed to discuss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [dragon translations](http://textuploader.com/x6az)
> 
> it's only been like two weeks but the chapter i wanted to finish before i posted this one was giving me hell so it feels like it's been centuries. hi.
> 
> fun fact: anduin finding the word wall & witnessing a dragon pop out of the ground is pretty much the ONLY reason i wound up including a bunch of anduin flashbacks at all. otherwise i would've nixed velen's anduin-radar and we'd all get to wonder where the hell he is for like seven chapters. BUT ALAS, exposition foiled my evil plans. >:/ i'll get you all next time.
> 
> congrats [mr.](http://www.wowwiki.com/Thurman_Mullby) and [mrs. mullby](http://www.wowwiki.com/Edna_Mullby) for being tertiary characters that, unlike [some](http://www.wowwiki.com/Footman_Malakai) [people](http://www.wowwiki.com/Footman_Rolf), DIDN'T get turned into dragon chow.


	7. Veyd Mahhe Staag

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **content warnings:** death/dead bodies, decapitation/general hacking and slashing, unreality/delusions?, burns, blood

Chapter 7: Veyd Mahhe Staag  
"Bleak Falls Barrow"

———Last Seed 31st———

The wind howled in Wrathion's ears.

The sun was nearly set on the mountaintop. A deep, fleeting red stained the western sky, painting the snow that clung eternally to the blackened architecture similarly. With the day tucked behind the peak, the cast shadows took it in their frigid, biting grip. The only warmth he had was the kindling excitement in his chest, trapped to him by his own leather armor. The cold struck at the garments, searching for chinks and on some accounts finding them. The air continued to take swipes through his cloth and hair, shrieking in the mouth of Bleak Falls Barrow.

The ancient temple breathed its warm, earthen air on Wrathion's face. He grinned, excitement flaring. How he knew, he wasn't sure, but he didn't dwell on it. Somehow, he just appreciated, for the first time in full, that this was the acting lair of Deathwing.

Funny that it was a literal tomb.

"Dragonborn?"

Wrathion set his face down to a small smirk. He glanced up and down the tall archway before him, then half-spun on a heel toward Bolvar. Though Wrathion's face was set, his eyes still burned with anticipation.

"Shall we?" he asked.

Bolvar didn't seem so thrilled. Wrathion didn't care. He turned and entered the barrow without order. After a moment, he heard the highlord's plated arm rise, and then the paces of a dozen Whiterun soldiers followed him inside. His grin crept back to his face when he wasn't supervising it; by morning, dragons would once more be extinct. At least for a short time, anyway. He still hadn't figured out how exactly their return would come—or _had_ come, as of Helgen. He doubted, though, that Deathwing was the only one who could outsmart death.

The barrow had not lied; it was warmer within. The entrance chamber was massive, filled with kind air and the slightest breezes. It wasn't quite like Hammerfell, whose great sun burnt the smell of earth, but it was certainly not like most of Skyrim, where the same smell was instead entombed in the ice. It was a pleasant medium between the two. If it weren't the home of a monster, Wrathion might claim it for himself. Perhaps he would anyway. It was as if the mountain had brought to his attention every last reason he bothered with nords and the cold, reminding him just how much it meant to him. He closed his eyes. For a moment, he lost himself to the warmth and the smell.

Then the chamber shivered, faintly, as if the bitter wind outside had swept over the mountain. Wrathion opened his eyes; the dust that floated down from the ceiling was the only confirmation the room had trembled at all. Plate rustled behind him as guards glanced around. Wrathion grinned, softer this time, and laughed under his breath.

"He's here."

"You're sure?" Bolvar asked, his voice quiet.

"We must hurry," Wrathion said suddenly, and at full volume, to the alarm of several soldiers. He strode across the cluttered chamber floor. "I can't be the only one that smells dragon blood."

Steel shuffled again, then the metallic footfalls reappeared behind him. The floor was littered with rubble, the occasional festering corpse and, to Wrathion's admittedly ill-founded delight, mummified molten rocks shaped like puddles. Chatter cropped up behind him—he caught the name Rolf, which he was fairly certain hadn't been any of Bolvar's soldiers. He didn't pay the commotion much mind, certain they were just fussing over the broken pieces of Whiterun armor scattered about the chamber. The walls were charred in places, suggesting there had been at least _some_ kind of fight before the room became an ugly cemetery.

The cavernous barrow walls groaned as Wrathion approached the far side of the entrance chamber, staring down into the winding tunnels below. Parts of the temple seemed too cramped for a dragon of Deathwing's supposed size to maneuver, yet Wrathion had trouble believing he hadn't managed. Something about the state of the mountain gave him the sense that Deathwing had, in fact, done just fine bending the earth to his will. It was, like many things regarding the dragon, a strange knowledge Wrathion couldn't quite explain the reasoning behind. A gut feeling, for lack of any better term.

Wrathion pressed on, and the entourage of Whiterun goons filed behind him with no more than the occasional uncertain whisper. Slowly, Wrathion's face lost the grin and turned rigid in concentration, observing the crypt as they went on. The architecture was ancient—definitely old enough to house a Word Wall, like Willem had indicated. It wasn't his priority, but Wrathion certainly wouldn't mind stumbling upon that as well as slaying his first dragon.

Oh, and perhaps saving the nord prince. Maybe.

The howling wind grew silent as they descended into the barrow, replaced with groaning walls and the occasional odd noise that would without fail spook at least a couple of Bolvar's troops. Wrathion had delved into more than enough cavernous ruins such as these, and the unfounded fear in disjointed echoes hardly bothered him anymore. It'd become an unconscious process in the back of his mind, deciding which noises were important and which could be overlooked.

The walls shuddered again. The air clouded with the regiment's nervous breathing.

"Honestly," Wrathion said, again with a near-loud speaking voice, "it's like none of you have ever stepped foot off your own patrol routes."

"Forgive them," Bolvar said. He spoke nearly as clear, but even his voice was a bit low. "Not everyone expects to face a dragon in their lifetime."

He scoffed. "I suppose. Still, your king could've spared soldiers more prepared."

"Have you ever seen a dragon?" one of the guards piped up, his voice shivering.

Wrathion looked at him. His eyebrows knit together some, irritated. "No, they've been extinct."

"You've been talking about them for years," another said.

"I've been saying they'll _return_ ," Wrathion said. "Do you suppose Skyrim wouldn't have noticed the first dragon in centuries? They did. He flattened Helgen."

"Then you have no better idea how to fight them?" a third spoke.

This was getting very annoying. He didn't know why he still expected people to have heard anything he'd said in the last three years beyond the word 'dragons'. No, of course, they knew precisely who he was and yet didn't know a thing about him. He could only hope, with a little more time, they'd start remembering.

"With my Voice, of course," he answered. "That _is_ how dragons fight."

"They fight with magic," one said.

Ugh. "That they cast with _dragon words_."

"So they do have a whole language?"

"Yes!" he snapped. "What do you think the Kirin Tor study upon the Throat of the—"

He stopped. The anger drained from his blood so fast he felt cold. He didn't move, instead straining his ears, cycling through all the sounds he'd dismissed. The soldiers didn't catch on.

"But it takes the Kirin Tor decades to learn those words," one of them said. "So how—"

"Shh," he said.

Bolvar noticed his change in behavior. "What do you—"

"Shut up," he snarled. The soldiers fell quiet at last.

The cavern resumed its usual ambience. The slight groaning of the mountain was lost on Wrathion; he only focused on the nuances. He heard water trickling somewhere. A lantern, hung from the ceiling, swung idly with a squeaking joint. He listened harder, stirring a draconic power in his chest, but it was one he didn't want to use prematurely.

He didn't have to; he heard it then. The rattling of bones. A whistle sounded just a moment later.

Wrathion turned, changing the shape of the Shout in his throat.

" **Zun**!"

An arrow, rotted and jagged, bent back mid-shaft, spiraling away from him. Swords screeched as soldiers armed themselves. Wrathion pulled out the golden dagger Bolvar had gifted him with, twisting the hilt around in his hand as he moved forward—gods, it didn't feel right!

Another arrow whistled through the air. Wrathion ducked away from it, letting it shatter against the cavern wall without another thought.

"What's happening?" Bolvar shouted to him.

Wrathion didn't answer. He ducked out of the tunnel and into an open chamber—not as large as the entrance—where three hideous sights stood guard along walkways jutting from high on the walls. Their flesh clung to their ancient bones, their nordic embalmment, though great even centuries ago, having long since failed their corpses. Now the skin sunk into every crevice of their skeletons, their armor rotted and putrid. Piercing blue eyes bore into him. He was not at all unfamiliar with the frigid hatred that their stares brandished like knives.

A third arrow sought him out, and he evaded that as well. Soldiers caught up, their faces draining of color at what they found.

"By the Nine—"

"What _are_ they?!"

"Don't gawk!" Wrathion snapped. "Surely you can outmatch a corpse!"

The creatures opened fire once again. Wrathion ducked away from the attack, bolting up a rugged staircase to meet the archers on their level. The closest tried to cut him off with an arrowhead to the throat, which missed. His Whiterun dagger tasted its first blood from beneath the monster's jaw into its head. He tore the blade free and let the thing tumble off the walkway, but the Dragonborn snarled. This damned knife felt wrong in his hand. Another arrow whisked by him, from the farthest creature. He took a quick but hard breath.

" **Zun** , **Haal Viik**!"

The force of his Shout stretched across the upper floor, pushing them back to the wall and shattering their bows to pieces that rained on the commotion below. Wait—there hadn't been any downstairs. Wrathion spared a glance, where more, wielding swords or axes, were crawling out of the stone caskets lining the room's walls. He cursed, but dismissed the problem for now. He approached the two on the walkway, who were still stunned. The first, he simply gripped its head and smashed it against a stone column. It slumped along the wall, lifeless once more. The second pulled a knife of its own, the blade twisted and full of craters left by age. Its arm struck out. Wrathion dodged to the right, took the thing's wrist and shattered the old bone, then hurled the rest to the floor. He stomped on its skull.

He took a moment to assess the situation below. Six more had appeared, two already disposed of, but two suits of Whiterun armor lay dead as well. He witnessed Bolvar decapitate the third assailant. Another soldier pushed the fourth back. It staggered just below Wrathion, who smirked and dropped down onto the creature's shoulders, effectively shattering its skull when its knees buckled and it collapsed to the floor. He hopped from the corpse and glanced at his work, oozing blood and embalming fluid, but Wrathion winced at something submerged in the muck and retrieved it.

What he held, by a goo-drenched bit of rope, was an amulet. One of Kynareth's, based on the shape, though Wrathion had to smear the sludge off with his thumb to make sure. It was damaged—the right-hand wing had snapped off—but fittingly enough, Wrathion noted its endurance. It was, however, not nearly old enough to have been buried with the creature lying dead at his feet. Wrathion turned the amulet around in his hand, wiping off more goo, and was rewarded for the trouble with an inscription.

_A.L.W._

Well, if that didn't just take all the mystery right out of it.

Wrathion scoffed, amused, and looped the amulet around his neck, dropping it underneath his armor for safekeeping. Dead or alive, the nord prince didn't need to know Wrathion had found his amulet if the Dragonborn didn't want him to. He glanced around for the remaining two creatures—he only just saw one as it was impaled through the mouth by a sword, and the last was cornered by two soldiers. They closed in, blades shimmering in the dim light. Wrathion threw up an arm.

"Wait a moment!" he said, casually—so much so it startled the grunts into hesitating.

Wrathion pushed between them. He ducked back when the monster's blade swept past his cheek, then kicked out his foot and threw it back against the wall. Wrathion inhaled.

" **Gol**!"

The Shout brushed over the creature like a strong wind, and behind it, the walls stirred. Several soldiers stumbled back, sputtering, as the earth crept out and ensnared the monster. The wall hardened and stilled again. The creature snarled and kicked out, but Wrathion—with a broken sweat and a raw Voice—just sneered.

"Not so bad, are you?" he chimed. He faced the regiment behind him, smug even in light of their bewildered faces. "Forgive me! I must have forgotten to mention this possibility."

"'Possibility'?" Bolvar echoed, pacing closer. "What in Oblivion _is_ that thing?"

Wrathion's grin stretched. "Draugr," he said.

It was _all_ he said, but the soldiers erupted into a hushed uproar. Wrathion's eyes never broke from Bolvar's. Their stares clashed, with the Dragonborn's unrightfully haughty and the highlord's a chaotic mix of angry and stunned. For a moment, the room collapsed into the soldiers' ruckus and the draugr's thrashing.

Finally, one guard—though she hesitated—spoke to Wrathion. "Aren't those..."

"A myth?" he said. "It seems you don't know a thing about your own land."

"You couldn't have mentioned this?" Bolvar said, his voice low in something nearing a growl.

"It slipped my mind." Wrathion shrugged. "I had dragons on the brain."

Bolvar's nostrils flared. He breathed in, then back out slowly. Behind Wrathion, the draugr snarled.

"Ah Dov!"

Wrathion put his mouth to a slight frown, but it was insincere. He turned to the creature again, eyes hooded as though he were bored with it. It continued to thrash beneath its earthen restraints, its cold blue eyes crackling like a frigid flame.

"It can speak," one of the soldiers whispered.

"Yes, it speaks that make-believe _dragon language_ I mentioned," Wrathion said, rolling his eyes.

"What did it say?" another asked.

Wrathion grinned. "'Dragon Hunter'." The insult was music to his ears. He stepped close to the draugr, who kicked out again, though he evaded the swipes. "Tell me, you understand me as I speak now, don't you?"

"Ag ko golt," it growled in return.

Wrathion shifted his jaw to one side, feigning concern for the threat. It didn't reach his tone. "You're quite rude. You don't even know me; isn't _burning_ a little rash?"

"Faal Lein Kreniik fen _vaaz_ sil nol hin slen!"

He laughed once. 'Lein Kreniik'? So the dragon had a title. "Ah, Deathwing! I was just going to ask about him. Your precious ' _World Breaker_ ' doesn't stand a chance against _me_. His return will be short-lived." He leaned close, tilting to the draugr's right side, and spoke with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. " Rok fen kren niid leinne do dii."

The draugr bucked, snarling, and it took Wrathion one second too long to register the words of power ensnared in its voice.

He tried to move back, but still was struck partially by the Shout. His vision went white, burning against his eyes, as his body felt shattered down even past his core. For a moment, the world disappeared. He was torn apart, inch from inch, as though he were just glass. Then every fragment of him came crashing back together, spliced and smashed into a single piece once more. The pain was excruciating; something powerful and feral screamed out from somewhere deep within him. He feared what it could be.

Then Bolvar was leaning above him. Wrathion had realized it abruptly—he wasn't sure how long the highlord had been there. He came to his senses and tried to sit up—he'd been lying down? But Bolvar's hand pressed him back to the floor, and the Dragonborn gave a desperate gasp for air he hadn't realized he needed. He didn't try again.

"You're back," Bolvar said, relief in his voice, but the worry remained in his brow. "Dragonborn?"

Wrathion tried to close his mouth, but instantly felt suffocated and wheezed. He blinked several times, trying to remember anything. It took all his concentration not to blurt out every question spiraling through his head.

"Did that thing _Shout_?" a voice from somewhere else said—one of the soldiers, Wrathion realized.

He remembered the draugr and the Shout—no, he squeezed his eyes shut instead. He didn't remember what it'd said, and he didn't _want_ to.

"Wrathion?" Bolvar spoke again.

His eyes opened back up. He tried to think. He could only recall being struck with the Shout, then a single moment of agony, unlike anything he'd ever felt. Then Bolvar had appeared in front of him. He couldn't remember anything more.

"Dragonborn," the highlord said, the urgency in his voice mounting.

Wrathion sniffed his nose and sat up. Again, Bolvar tried to stop him, but he swatted the paladin's arm away. He only paused when he was upright, scouring the room. He found the draugr still suspended by the wall, but it didn't thrash any longer. A hole in its head bled festered sludge. One of the soldiers must have killed it. How long had he blacked out? What had it _done_ to him? _Never mind,_ he growled inwardly. _I don't care._

Bolvar laid a hand on his shoulder. "Dragonborn—"

He lurched free. "I'm fine," he hissed, his voice hoarse.

"You _screamed_ ," Bolvar said.

Wrathion laughed, offended. " _Screamed_? No." He grimaced at the roughness, but his voice hadn't trembled and even played to its usual pride. Barring how raspy it sounded, it'd been a strong if completely transparent lie. After all, he couldn't much convince anyone he _hadn't_ screamed, but he wouldn't admit he _had_ either. He cleared his throat.

Bolvar ground his teeth. He was frustrated, but he let it go. "What happened back there?"

"It Shouted," Wrathion said obviously. He pounded his chest with a fist, hacking again.

"Draugr can do that?" a soldier piped up.

"Of course they can," he groaned. "They worshipped _dragons_. You don't suppose they could've learned a Shout or two?"

"What'd it do to you, then?" another asked. "Do you know that Shout?"

Wrathion clamped his jaw. He resisted a shudder. "No." He still didn't want to. That was one Shout he could certainly do without; he didn't care _what_ it was.

He pulled his knees up to his chest and leapt to his feet. The motion blurred his vision temporarily, but he forced it away. He brushed the dust from his clothes, taking a moment to compose himself.

"If you're all finished gapping at the husk—" he gestured idly at the wall, "—I'd like to get back to the task at hand."

Bolvar was hesitant, but after a moment, he nodded at his regiment. "Let's keep going."

Wrathion, again without order, started off through the barrow. He didn't show it any longer, but his body still sensed, faintly, the lingering echo of the draugr's Shout. He continued to ignore it. He passed into a tunnel that was more wild cavern than architecture. The walls bloomed with clusters of glowing mushrooms, illuminating the passage rather well. He could hear the rippling stream from earlier again.

"Wow," one of the soldiers whispered.

Wrathion spared a momentary glare at nothing, irritated, then pushed on. The mountain trembled again, but it was even softer than the last time. He didn't like the implication that the dragon was farther away; he was certain it was Deathwing shaking the barrow, after all. What was perhaps more annoying was the way the soldiers relaxed some, clearly having the same idea. Wrathion set his jaw and picked up his speed, waking their slight distress back to a level that made him feel better.

"How do you know your Voice will stack up against Deathwing, Dragonborn?" one of the soldiers asked. It was the hesitant girl again.

Wrathion was more than annoyed with the incessant questions by now. "I've been tempering it for years," he said. "Not to mention it _is_ supposed to be on par with any dragon's."

"'Supposed to be'," another guard repeated, "but you don't _know_ for sure. You've never fought one."

"And how do you know it _isn't_?" he growled.

"Well," the same man started, pausing to articulate. "It's just, you said that draugr thing was probably taught to Shout by dragons, right?"

He already knew where this was going.

"Whether in the flesh or from a book, the teachings are the same," he droned, now just picking random patches of mushrooms to glare at.

"But that draugr's Shout was stronger than yours."

Wrathion stopped and snapped his head toward the soldier. "Excuse me?"

"Or it looked to be," he said. "I saw you Shout at the ones upstairs. But it wasn't anything like what the draugr did to you."

Wrathion narrowed his eyes. "They weren't the same Shouts."

"What was its, then? What'd it say?"

He asked the questions out of genuine curiosity, but Wrathion took it as a challenge instead.

And he'd lied—he didn't know for sure if the draugr had used the same Shout. He couldn't remember the words it'd spoken. He'd just heard dragon language, and the very next thing he could recall was his very soul being sundered for a split moment, before it came back together. Broken down and rebuilt, all in the fraction of a second. That was the only way he knew how to describe it.

He almost answered the soldier, but he smelled something.

Charred flesh.

Wrathion turned, slowly; first with his eyes, then his head, then his body followed. He peered into the blue-black tunnel, straining for any signs of life, but he saw none. He knew he hadn't imagined it though—the smell was unmistakable. It matched Willem's wounds perfectly. Somewhere very close by, a victim of Deathwing's hellfire hid from the Dragonborn.

The soldiers didn't make the same mistake as earlier. They saw Wrathion's concentration and kept very quiet and still. Slowly, Wrathion took a step. Nothing changed. He took another, then another, and carefully made his way through the passage. He overworked all his senses; he followed the smell of blistered skin while his eyes and ears scoured for additional clues. Swords began scraping on their sheaths. The soldiers suspected more draugr.

He kept his slow pace through the tunnel, searching every crevice laid out in front of him until finally, maybe minutes later, he heard stones shift. He stopped. So did the regiment. He heard nothing after that, no matter how closely he listened. Not a sound.

His Voice still felt weak, as he'd used it perhaps too much dealing with the last ambush. Even so, he took a deep breath. The power that stirred in him was not violent, but passive, almost serene. It was a Shout—if he could call it such—that did not bludgeon the weapons out of opponents' hands. Instead it crept through the air like a soft mist. A whisper would've been a more accurate name.

He spoke—or sighed, more like—and a single word of power stuck to his Voice. " **Laas**."

The air went slightly chilled as the Shout passed through it, then, around a corner just a few feet away, he sensed exactly what he'd expected to. A life form, humanoid, tucked against the wall. He didn't see it with his eyes so much as his mind. His Shout mapped out the cavern before him, highlighting any semblances of life within range of the whisper. The mushrooms and the regiment behind him glowed in his mind's eye just as the figure behind the wall did.

Wrathion saw its shoulders tense up and knew that he'd been too close. The creature had heard him speak. The next moment was only a blink of the eye; a blur of gold appeared in the blue-black tunnel and the joined woods and metals of a crossbow sounded. Wrathion didn't think, he only acted.

" **Zun**!"

The bolt and the crossbow both jerked backwards. To Wrathion's surprise, having used only the one word, they flew out of the creature's grip, clattering out of sight. The assailant was no draugr, though—he was just a boy, burned and bloody, with a face paled both by sickness and by the revelation that he'd made an error.

Wrathion, with his mouth open, could only blink. The regalia, though filthy, put three words in his mind.

The White Pawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [dragon translations](http://textuploader.com/xj32)
> 
> i told you i didn't want to joke about how long this'd take. 8);;;
> 
> wrathion when will you learn to stop patronizing people uncomfortably close to their faces. like, honestly. this is the second time in a week.


	8. Jun Ko Vul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **content warnings:** walking corpses (draugr)  & death mentions. that's kind of it, actually

Chapter 8: Jun Ko Vul  
"Light in the Dark"

———Last Seed 31st———

Right shuddered and hugged her arms tight across her chest. It barely helped; her leather was chilled by the late night air, and while the mere shape of the stance made her feel less helpless, all it'd really done was drain what little heat was left from her arms. She cursed under her breath, sparing a glance at the sky. It wasn't even midnight yet. Dawn was a distant mercy.

"I hate this country," she growled.

Left only hummed. Right groaned.

"Nothing bothers you," she grumbled. "Not the cold, not an axe to the midsection..."

The orc didn't say anything.

"I'm not complaining," Right went on. "Just envious, really. Gods, it's cold."

"It doesn't bother you either," Left said.

"When I have something to _do_ ," Right snapped. She shivered again. "Or a certain Dragonborn to keep my composure for."

Left eyed her. Right saw, clucked her tongue and cocked her head.

"Don't give me that," she said. " _You're_ not going to accuse me of slacking off. I don't have to impress you."

Left looked forward again. Right sighed, rubbing her arms through the leather. It didn't help. She wondered for a moment where Wrathion was now. She doubted he'd stay in Riverwood long—he was much too impatient for that—so he must have been on his way up one of these peaks by now. Annoyingly, there were several. Even though the Mullbys had specified the mountain was west, Riverwood sat in a valley with highlands lining either side. The Throat of the World was to the east, but there were dozens of points to the west, and searching each one would be a nightmare. He had a regiment led by one of Whiterun's favorite nords, but Right had little faith in the hold's goons and how they would hold up against a dragon.

She ground her teeth. Bringing Sharkbait to Wrathion had been a good idea. Keeping him after that night in Rorikstead had not.

"Horses," Left said, pointing.

Right looked up, and sure enough, a dozen or so horses dressed in Whiterun colors were tied up on the edge of a village gate. Riverwood. Right shuddered again, then hunched her back and took on a brisk pace for the town.

"Let's go," she said, and added a stressed, "Inside."

"You think someone will know which mountain?" Left asked.

"Gods, I hope so," Right groaned. "And I hope they're _inside_."

Left's jaw shifted. She hummed again and followed the redguard into town.

At this hour, nearly all the windows were dark. Only the inn glowed with faint firelights. Right hurried her way along the cobblestone and practically leapt onto the porch, shoving the door open and stumbling inside. The heat of the firepit overwhelmed her and she sighed in blissful relief, shaking the ice off her bones. Left appeared behind her and closed the door, locking the nighttime cold outside.

"Better?" she asked.

Right gave a stiff nod, still soaking in the warmth. "Better."

She sniffed and took a proper look around the inn. There was a bard passed out in a chair in the corner, lute perched between his legs on the floor. There was also a more peculiar sight: a man dressed in expensive robes, likely a wizard, with white skin rivaling the snow outside. Ridges protruded from his scalp and tendrils interlaced with his knee-length beard. Typical traits of draenei. Despite his full dress, he seemed weak. Injured, perhaps. A barkeep had a book open on the counter, chin in his hand. He paid the two agents no mind except having glanced at them earlier when they first came in.

Right shook herself again, then went to the counter. Back to business. "You see those horses on the way into town?"

"Nope," the barkeep said.

Right offered a small laugh; it wasn't sincere. "How could you miss them?"

"Haven't been out all day."

"Ah." She shifted her jaw. "What for?"

"Someone's gotta keep the place running while Farley's out."

"I guess," Right said. She didn't care who Farley was. She glanced away for a moment, then looked at the barkeep again. "Aren't you curious?"

"Nope."

"Not even a little?" she teased. "There must be a dozen of them. Since when do a dozen Whiterun horses show up in Riverwood?"

"Beats me."

What an annoying barkeep.

"Right," Left said.

Right considered ignoring her, but Left scarcely had something trivial to say. She glanced at her, and followed her eyes back to the draenei. He was staring at them. He didn't look away. He seemed deep in thought, yet aware that they'd noticed him. Right glanced at the barkeep, who had returned to his book, and decided to approach the wizard. He gave a small smile as they got close.

"Greetings," he said. "You're curious about Whiterun's presence in Riverwood."

Right raised an eyebrow. "Eavesdropping?"

"I couldn't help but overhear," he said. "It's quiet this late, after all. What brings you here at such an hour?"

It was none of his business, frankly. "I should ask you the same thing. You hardly look like you belong here."

His smile broadened. "I'm waiting for someone."

"Oh yeah?"

"A few someones," he corrected. He paused, considering something. "The regiment that rode those horses in."

Right's eyes narrowed. She leaned forward a bit, interested. "You came with them?"

"I did," he sighed, "but I was too weak to go any further."

"Just who..." Her eyes widened a smidgeon. She didn't have to ask. A wounded draenei wizard accompanying Whiterun and the Dragonborn to a mountain supposedly hosting the dragon that leveled Helgen? "You're Velen."

"I am."

"I heard you died in Falkreath."

"Many did," he said. "I managed to survive, if only just."

Right shifted her jaw, thinking, then hummed. "Whiterun," she said. "What are they doing here?"

The corners of his smile twitched. His eyes glimmered. "You know why, don't you?"

She narrowed her eyes again. She considered playing dumb, but she already got the feeling it wouldn't work. "They think that dragon's on one of these mountains."

"They do," he said.

"Which one?"

"You're here for the Dragonborn, aren't you?"

She tensed, but not visibly. Left's lip curled. Velen lifted a hand, bowing his head.

"I don't mean to stop you," he said. "So long as you don't mean to stop him, that is."

Left and Right exchanged a glance. Right looked at Velen again. "You ever heard of Blacktalons?"

The prophet nodded, understanding. "You're his agents."

"Whiterun's goons picked him up the other day," she said. "We want him back."

"He was arrested," Velen said, "but he and King Varian struck a deal."

"Let me guess: slay the dragon, go home. Don't, rot in prison?"

Velen smiled, eyes glimmering again. "Something to that effect."

Right squinted, but dismissed it. "Which peak?"

Velen sighed, thinking.

"We don't have a lot of time for your suspicions," she said. "You might think the Dragonborn and a dozen grunts from Whiterun can handle any dragon—"

"I don't," he admitted. He sighed again. "Well, I worry at least."

"Then tell me," she said. "We are, after all, trained for this."

He stared at her for a long, quiet moment. Then something in him shifted and his hesitation relented. He looked to the floor. "Bleak Falls," he said. "There's a dark structure jutting out of one of the peaks. That's where Whiterun and the Dragonborn have gone."

If he had expected Right to ask him any more questions, he'd been wrong, because the agent turned toward the door as soon as the words left his mouth.

"Good," she said, then gestured at Left. "Let's go."

"Understand, agents," Velen spoke up. "Your Dragonborn has a mission from the king. Please, you mustn't interrupt him—"

"We aren't going to," Right said. She glanced at him. "We're going to kill a dragon."

———Last Seed 31st———

The last moment had been a flash, but this one seemed to go on for an eternity. This stranger—looking like he'd taken a leisurely stroll into the temple for some unfathomable reason—stared at Anduin, disbelieving the sight of the battered prince in front of him. And the prince stared back; bewildered, certainly, because he had mistaken the stranger for something else. Draugr, specifically, since Anduin thought they were all that crept around this place, but he was definitely no draugr.

Then who was he? He wasn't at Helgen, Anduin was sure. He obviously wasn't part of the prince's guard, and the couple of civilians the dragon had stolen looked nothing like the redguard in front of him. Was he some adventurer, then? Who would voluntarily dive into a place like this? Unless, fairly, he didn't know about the dragons.

Anduin breathed in, realizing: the dragons! This stranger, whoever he was, needed to know. Perhaps he'd help. Perhaps—

He meant to speak, but instead every muscle in his body surrendered. His knees buckled—the right burned, but he couldn't react—and he turned heavy. He fell forward, too stunned by the loss of strength to even stop himself.

The stranger startled. "Ah—"

He reached out, impulsively, and caught Anduin under the arms. The prince, starved as he was, remained too heavy or maybe too awkward for the stranger to hold up. They both sank to the floor, he in a kneel and Anduin in a heap, but at least the stranger had broken his fall. He struggled to so much as stay awake. He felt so weak, suddenly. Where had it come from? Was he really just that relieved to see someone who didn't immediately brandish something sharp at him?

"Prince Anduin!"

Anduin flinched, his eyes opening wide for a moment before fluttering part-closed again. That voice was far away, but familiar. He thought first of Captain Taylor, but he knew better. So who...

"Well," another voice laughed softly—he didn't recognize it and it was right above him. Probably the stranger. "What have we here?"

He couldn't muster a response. He just sighed. He wanted to fall asleep.

"Anduin," the familiar voice said again, close now. A hand fell on the prince's shoulder.

He recognized it that time, and struggled to look. He saw, barely, the highlord's face worrying down at him. His chest rose, thrilled even though his exhaustion dulled it.

"Bolvar," he managed to say.

Bolvar grinned; the prince had seldom seen him happier. "Thank the Nine," he said, leaning closer to try and assess the damage. "You're alive—and safe, now."

Yet darkness crawled in the edges of Anduin's eyes. He staved it off, making a small smile instead.

"Hand him here," Bolvar said to the stranger.

He complied quite readily, helping Bolvar take the prince into his own arms. The highlord tucked Anduin close to his breastplate. Golden light hounded the darkness out of his eyes. His body swelled with relief, his pain and exhaustion fleeing as a magic he'd long since lost the strength to use himself poured through him under Bolvar's command. He heard shifting to his left, perhaps the stranger standing up, but paid it little mind.

"What a happy coincidence," the stranger piped up. He sounded confident now—much different from the startled, awkward voice he'd had before. He sounded clearer, too, though Anduin wondered if that wasn't a product of Bolvar's healing.

"We'll rest here for a moment," Bolvar said. Anduin recognized the tone he used. It was a demanding one, but disguised by something like an idea or suggestion. Bolvar used it frequently in disagreements with the prince's father.

He tensed, eyes flickering open again. His father—did he know about the dragons? Did Whiterun know?

"Bolvar," he said; his voice, like the stranger's, was clearing. "Did you..."

But even so, he remained weak, and his voice disappeared with his whitened breath in the cold. Bolvar adjusted him some, holding his head still.

"Hush, your highness," he said softly, like when Anduin was sick as a boy. He supposed he was now. "Please, just rest."

Anduin screwed up his face. There was hardly time for that, even if he understood Bolvar's reasoning. "The dragons ar—"

Bolvar had tried to shush him again, interrupting him, but it'd been a vain effort because the stranger heard anyway.

"Yes, the dragon," he chimed, suddenly interested in the prince. "Good, I'm glad you bring it up—"

"He's weak, Dragonborn," Bolvar growled.

Anduin squinted. Dragon- _what_?

"I'm not blind, Highlord," the stranger quipped. He knelt at Anduin's feet. The smile he wore was friendly, on the brink of charming, but Anduin had talked to enough masked councilmen looking for something to see right through it. "Prince Anduin."

He blinked slow, wincing still. What was this stranger doing here? Who _was_ he?

"Leave him," Bolvar said.

"No," Anduin blurted out. This was important. "Who are you?"

The stranger's smile grew. "I go by Wrathion. I'm Dragonborn."

Then he _had_ heard Bolvar right.

"Dragonborn," Anduin repeated, testing the word. He remembered the occasional rumor about someone claiming to be Dragonborn—a redguard, a teenager like the one in front of him. Was this really the same person?

"Your father sought me out," Wrathion said. He refrained from complaining to the prince about the details. Later, perhaps, if there was time. Right now, he would play nice.

"Then Whiterun knows," Anduin mumbled. He relaxed some at the knowledge.

"They do," Wrathion said, and smirked. "And they have good taste in aid."

The prince squinted again. Apparently, the gossip hadn't been wrong about the alleged Dragonborn's bottomless confidence. "How did you find me?"

"One of your guardsmen," Wrathion said, though Anduin caught a trace of bitterness in his voice. "Or would you prefer deserter?"

Anduin didn't hear the latter question. His eyes had widened again, hopeful. "My guardsmen? Someone survived?"

"Deputy Willem, my prince," Bolvar answered. "He told us as much as he could."

The smile was slow to take to his face through his weakness, but it was there nonetheless. At least someone had made it out of this nightmare. His eyes closed, sighing again. The pain was numb under Bolvar's continued healing, but he was still exhausted. A snapping sound startled him though. He only barely saw Wrathion's hand, poised to scuff his fingers, before Bolvar swatted him away.

"He's _wounded_ ," the highlord barked.

"And he has more answers than anyone," Wrathion growled back.

"Don't," Anduin said. He raised a hand to grip at Bolvar's breastplate. "It's fine. This is important."

"Your highness, you need to rest—"

"I can do that later," he said. "Once we're out of this place. You're Dragonborn, right?"

Wrathion scoffed, defensive. Whether because of Bolvar or the question, Anduin wasn't sure. "Yes," he said. "I Shouted earlier. The crossbow—"

"I know," Anduin said, then squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't know, actually, that the magic Wrathion had used to cast the crossbow away had been the Voice. It made sense, he supposed. All he'd done was yell a word, and the thing had flinched so hard Anduin lost his grip, allowing it to disappear behind him. "I mean, I assumed. I doubt my father would've sent you unless you could prove you were who you said."

Wrathion closed his mouth and squinted. He studied Anduin for a moment—for what reason, the prince was equally unsure. Wrathion looked him over once, then fixated on his belt. The prince's tabard was bunched up like a sack, tethered to his hip. Something heavy weighted the bottom.

Wrathion crooked an eyebrow. "A souvenir, Prince Anduin?"

Anduin blinked, then glanced down. "Oh," he said, shifting.

Bolvar loosened his arm around the prince's shoulders, allowing him to untie the tabard and uncover a stone slate. Wrathion squinted again, his humor lost to curiosity.

"I found this," Anduin said. He held it up some, trying to get a better light on it. "I don't know what it is, but I—"

He couldn't finish, for Wrathion had spotted the writing on the back and snatched the tablet from Anduin's hands. Bolvar pulled the prince closer, screwing up his face in a scowl.

"What do you—" the highlord started, but Wrathion held up a finger, his attention trained on the stone.

"Het nok un mahlaan drogge," he read aloud, concentrating; "erei suleyk se..." His voice trailed away and his eyes narrowed.

Bolvar winced, looking as if he thought he could unravel the dragon language. Anduin, however, picked up on a very strong sense of concern within the Dragonborn.

"Wrathion?"

He didn't answer. For a long moment, he was silent.

"What does it say, Dragonborn?" Bolvar said.

Finally, Wrathion stirred. He blinked once, still just as lost in thought as before. But he finished reading, quietly, doubtingly:

"Erei suleyk se Neltharion vokrii..."

Had he heard that name before?

"Highlord!" a soldier cried out.

Wrathion's eyes shot up as Bolvar twisted around. Narrowly, the highlord fixed his grip on Anduin and shrunk back in a crouch, dodging the sharp edge of a rotting sword. It pierced the ground, gripped by the earth and temporarily trapping the draugr that wielded it. Bolvar shifted his arms and stood, carrying Anduin a pace or two away from the creature before it could dislodge its weapon. It snarled, and inhaled.

Anduin recognized the sound. "Get back!"

" **Fus**!"

A Shout powered forward. Bolvar, with his arm hooked under Anduin's knees, raised his hand and put up a ward. It absorbed most of the attack, but still some of it broke through, forcing the highlord to block it from Anduin by shielding him with a shoulder. He stumbled, hissing, but just managing to keep on his feet.

"Bolvar—"

"I'm fine," he grunted.

The draugr tore its blade free, staggering. It adjusted the grip of the hilt and charged forward. Bolvar dodged aside, fingers curling to keep Anduin close. One of the soldiers fired an arrow into its shoulder; it hardly cared, eyes fixed on Anduin.

"Daal dovahgolz!"

"Looking for this?"

The draugr glanced behind it. Wrathion stood a few paces back, right hand on his hip and left in the air, holding the stone tablet up for display. The draugr rumbled with anger.

"Dovahkiin," it snarled, facing him.

Wrathion grinned. "I thought so," he said. He turned the tablet in his hand, giving it a once over. "'Dragonstone', hm? That's what you called it, didn't you? How fascinating."

The draugr charged forward; Wrathion dodged aside, skirting around it until he stood between it and Bolvar. Plate clanked behind him, signaling the soldiers's approach. Wrathion held up his empty hand, halting them. His grin was wild now as he stared upon the draugr.

"It must be valuable!" he said. "And it seems we share the name 'dovah'. That gives me some claim to it, wouldn't you say?"

"Hi los nunon nivahriin soslun!"

"' _Cowardly_ '?" Wrathion echoed, feigning offense. "I suppose the 'leech' bit is appropriate—though you could've used a prettier word—but ' _cowardly_ '?"

" _Nivahriin_ ," the draugr repeated, snarling the word.

Wrathion's eyelids slipped, setting a bored look on his face. "So says the one who's hid behind _dragons_ for centuries, is that right?"

At this, the draugr reined in its vehement anger for just a moment. It straightened its back; the blue flare of its eyes dimmed some, calming. When it spoke, the words seemed a bit clearer, free of its spitting, venomous growling.

"Hi los _vobalaan_ do faan 'dovah'."

Wrathion shifted his jaw. His eyebrows fell low. This draugr was beginning to remind him of every other nord he'd had to deal with in the last three years. Arrogant, set in its ways and completely refusing to see any reason. Today, they called him a liar; centuries ago, they called him unworthy. It was annoying. He shifted his footing and, without looking, tossed the dragonstone behind him. Anduin threw his arms forward, nearly unbalancing Bolvar, but the prince managed to catch the stone.

"Hold onto that for me, if you please," Wrathion said. He grinned. "I have work to do."

And worth to prove.

The draugr launched forward and swung its sword. Wrathion leapt over the blade and it's wielder, plucking his golden dagger from its place on his hip. His nose wrinkled and his lip curled; he hated the way this damned knife felt in his hand. He landed again on the draugr's other side, as its blade, having missed, swung out awkwardly, destabilizing its weight. Wrathion sneered at it, fixed the uncomfortable grip on his dagger and started to charge.

" **Yol**!" the draugr said.

Fire blossomed in its throat. Wrathion staggered, shifting his momentum backwards, but it wouldn't be fast enough. He thought quickly.

" **Fo**!" he Shouted, and the bitter taste of Skyrim herself iced over his own mouth.

The draugr's burst of flames that came forth was small—a simple blast, as to be expected from a single word of power. Most of it was easily snuffed by the similarly minute gust of Wrathion's frigid ice that struck it, though red embers still sailed passed him, some biting at him, momentarily, before flickering out and floating to the cavern floor as ashes. The cold stuck to Wrathion's teeth even after the light went out in his mouth; his chest ached as though he'd screamed himself raw. His Voice was waning.

The draugr moved forward again, sword in hand. Unlike Wrathion, its Voice was in prime condition. " **Yol**!"

Another spurt of fire shot forth. Wrathion snarled and ducked out of the way. The draugr Shouted twice more, and each time, Wrathion dodged back. His toes curled at the flames snapping at his boots. His heart skipped a beat as an arrow zipped past him, after missing the draugr. Another struck the creature's shoulder. Like before, it hardly seemed to affect it.

"Don't bother!" he snapped ahead, at whichever marksman had tried their hand. "This is my fight."

The draugr struck out its sword; Wrathion ducked, skirting to the side. He adjusted his knife—again—and slashed the creature's throat, but the wound was too shallow to take off its head, and it only left a bleeding cut that otherwise didn't bother it. It swung again, and again Wrathion dodged. The draugr snarled, and Wrathion could guess why. His Voice was tired, but he wasn't.

"Zu'u fent fustum hin sil kotin Oblivion!" it said, more threats. Though Wrathion couldn't be surprised if dragons and draugr alike fought more with their words than their weapons. They were, to them, the same thing.

Wrathion flashed another grin. "Try it!"

The draugr's chest rumbled out a word. Wrathion winced. His blood turned cold and his body burned in places; lines, like aching cuts, or... straining seams. It took him a moment to place the unnerving sensation, but when he did, something he wouldn't admit was fear overthrew him.

He went deaf to the rest of the world with the sound of rushing blood in his ears, but he saw the draugr's mouth move to speak that evil, soul-shattering Shout. Despite how exhausted his Voice already was, Wrathion spoke first.

" **Krii**!"

The Shout came out frantic and too far left. It only grazed the draugr. It was enough to stun it and knock the words of power out of its mouth though—at least Wrathion assumed, because though he couldn't hear over his own whirling mind, no wicked pain had torn into him. Even still, the Shout only staggered the draugr, and it did a number on Wrathion; he'd used perhaps the most demanding but destructive Shout he knew, in his panic, and now he was paying for it. Exhaustion's grip was clamping down on him as he drained his own magic. Coupled with the fear, he found himself immobilized—if he moved, his knees would give and he'd collapse. The draugr recovered with a growl and Wrathion's chest ached with the force of his throbbing heart.

A bright light struck out. Wrathion shut his eyes for a moment, bracing for that ungodly agony, but it didn't come and he quickly realized the draugr hadn't Shouted. He only saw the traces of what had happened, little particles of flaming light on the draugr's back and shoulders. Their glow hurt Wrathion's eyes and made his skin crawl. It made him want to retreat from it, but for this exact reason, he grinned wide.

Sun magic!

The draugr's scream reached his ears—it was leaps and bounds more pleasant than that horrible Shout. It spun around, and behind it was Bolvar, his prince elsewhere and light curling around the highlord's raised hand like a tamed snake, ready to strike whatever he willed it to.

The draugr snarled and charged forward. Bolvar raised his arm to strike it again; light burst forth, but the draugr opened its mouth and a power swelled in its throat.

" **Fus**!"

The sun spell exploded. Light scattered everywhere, flickering and fizzling like a shattered star. Wrathion shied away from some of the sparks that had popped to his feet. The draugr swept its sword down from above and nearly cut a staggered Bolvar in two. He dodged, barely, and struggled to rekindle the sun magic in his hand. The draugr Shouted again, with the same word, knocking Bolvar back. A couple soldiers moved forward to assist, but the draugr's Shout, whatever it was, was difficult to combat. The draugr stumbled the two soldiers with the word and gutted one on its sword, tossing him off with a snarl. Its frosted glare found Anduin, standing back with the support of his broken weapon haft, the dragonstone clenched under his arm. The draugr breathed in.

" **Yol** —"

The fire lit up in its mouth and was instantly snuffed; another blast of Bolvar's sun magic had struck it from behind, forcing it instead to cry out.

"Dragonborn!" Bolvar said. "Get the prince out of here!"

Wrathion opened his mouth to quip 'gladly', but Anduin spoke first. "Bolvar, you can't—"

"Go with him, your highness!"

Wrathion skirted the edge of the tunnel to move past the draugr; it barked out a Shout and a gust of fire nearly took off his ear. He made it to Anduin though, and despite the sweat he'd broken, he smirked and offered a hand.

"Kulaan," he greeted.

Anduin snapped his head toward the Dragonborn, his chest knotting painfully. He knit his eyebrows tightly, his eyes wide beneath the gesture. "Excuse me?"

Wrathion blinked, surprised by the defensive reaction. Did it sound insulting? Wrathion had always sort of liked the word for 'prince'.

The draugr's Voice echoed in the tunnel and the walls shook. Anduin's eyes shot to the ceiling. Wrathion dismissed the confusion and snapped the fingers of his offered hand, reclaiming the prince's attention.

"Can you dance, Prince Anduin?"

 _Dance?_ his mind repeated. "What? Why?"

"You'll have to!"

He said it urgently as a chunk of the ceiling fell. He hopped aside, his feet close at the ankles and nearly landing on Anduin's toes, but the jump was precise and just short of doing the prince harm. Anduin shied back, impulsively, from Wrathion's leather brushing his regalia, but Wrathion grabbed his wrist to keep Anduin from going far. Instead, he wrapped the prince's arm over his shoulders and maneuvered through more debris with that same precision he'd utilized all through his fight with the draugr. Anduin saw what he meant by 'dance' now—the Dragonborn was agile.

Unfortunately, given the state of his leg, Anduin was not.

The blue glow of the mushrooms lining the walls turned a painful shade of red as the draugr's fire took to another soldier. Anduin ducked away from the sparks, but Wrathion didn't slow down and didn't allow the prince to either, shouldering Anduin's weight and still managing to go faster than the limp would've allowed. The guardsman's screaming made Anduin crane his head back, anchoring them both to a stop that was prompt to irritate Wrathion.

"We can't leave them—"

"They volunteered," Wrathion said.

Anduin shot a look back at him, almost snapping, but he saw the Dragonborn wasn't grinning about it like he'd first thought. It was a fact, not a slight. The golden light of sun magic dyed the cavern next, and the draugr wailed as, when Anduin took another glance, he saw Bolvar take a swing with his sword. Wrathion tugged his arm and the thought was forced aside as he had to focus on hurrying through the tunnel, dodging the collapsing ceiling and scrutinizing every turn that threatened to trip him. A stream splashed underneath their feet.

"About that dragon!"

Anduin looked back at the Dragonborn, squinting. "What?"

" _Deathwing_ , Prince Anduin!" Wrathion said. "Don't you remember?"

"Is now really the—"

He stopped himself. What was he thinking; Wrathion was _Dragonborn_. If anyone should be steered toward the dragons, it should be him. Shouldn't it?

"Have you ever _fought_ a dragon?" he asked.

Wrathion rolled his head. "Please."

"You haven't," Anduin frowned.

"There's a first time for everything!" he quipped, impatient. "Out with it!"

Anduin held his breath. His first instinct remained: no one had stood a chance against the dragon that attacked Helgen. Velen was the closest, but even he had given his life only for a shallow wound that hardly seemed to bother the creature anymore, as far as Anduin could tell. Now, however, the Dragonborn was asking. Anduin knew the stories, but could he really fair much better? Against _two_?

Wait—why did Wrathion only mentioned one? No, what was he thinking?

Of _course_ Whiterun didn't know about the second.

"Wrathion, there's something I—"

Wrathion skidded to a stop, knocking the words out of Anduin's mouth. He only just managed to lodge his haft between two rocks for stability, when Wrathion pulled his arm off and stared ahead. Anduin considered snapping at him, but it could wait. _All_ of it could wait.

"Wrath—"

A finger at his lips silenced him; Wrathion looked on, transfixed by something. Anduin scowled and grabbed his wrist, pulling his hand away.

"Listen to me—"

"The Word Wall," he mumbled.

Anduin winced, glancing ahead, but he fell silent for a whole different reason than Wrathion. What opened up before them was a huge chamber, illuminated by the moonlight streaking down from cracks in the ceiling. It lit up a huge structure; the wall Wrathion had hoped to find while he was here. To Anduin, however, this was not a thrilling place.

He kept his voice low, nearly inaudible, and tugged on Wrathion's wrist. "Wrathion—"

"A moment," Wrathion said, full volume; the kind of casual tone that made Anduin's blood freeze. He pulled his arm free and strode forward, eyes fixed still on the wall across the chamber.

Anduin's feet carried him without any thought to, even as his joints locked to try and stop him. His leg burned from running through the caverns, though, and his limp couldn't keep up with Wrathion's brisk pace. "Don't!" he hissed in a whisper.

"Stay there, then," Wrathion shouted back, "if you're so—"

The floor ahead shattered. The cavern shook, nearly knocking them both off their feet. Anduin clung to his haft while Wrathion threw his arms out, watching the ground with wide, focused eyes. Something rumbled, a deep, growling voice that Wrathion had only heard once, a very long time ago,

in a dream.

Slowly, the Dragonborn lifted his eyes. Dust fogged the chamber, browns lit up by streams of silver moonlight, but through it were dull patches of midnight black. They glimmered when struck by the light, like shiny configured stones, but they flexed and breathed not like the earth. They were scales, patterned across wings, a winding neck, and finally, a giant head with piercing yellow eyes, a tad more green than red. There was another growl; the shine of white teeth pierced through the dusty shroud that floated down from the beast's hulking build.

The chamber cleared, and standing in front of Wrathion was, with no doubt in his mind, a dragon. He looked like one, he _smelled_ like one. His very presence set fire to a hatred in the Dragonborn's chest, that bloomed out and filled every vein in him. The surface of his skin felt hot and his sapped energy returned, his bruises and Voice silencing their pains.

The dragon's fins folded. His eyes narrowed.

"Dovahkiin," he snarled.

The burning hatred was mutual, it seemed.

Wrathion breathed at last. He took in the details. The dragon was smaller than he'd heard; he certainly didn't bleed lava. This would be easier than Wrathion thought.

He grinned.

"I expected more," he said. "How disappointing."

The dragon wasn't afraid, but then, Wrathion had known he wouldn't be. "I was warned about you, Dovahkiin. What do they call you?"

Anduin's fingers curled around the haft. He didn't know whether or not to be surprised when it spoke words he understood. Wrathion unraveled from his braced stance, rolling the kinks out of his shoulder.

"They _call_ me Dragonborn," he said smugly, "but my _name_ is Wrathion. And yours?"

"Hiram," the dragon replied, "but you will call me Creed."

"Creed," Wrathion echoed. He laughed once, then without looking away from the dragon, tilted his head over his shoulder toward Anduin. " _This_ is what maimed your leg, Prince Anduin?"

The prince's answer was soft and distracted.

"No."

Wrathion blinked and screwed up his face, turning further to look at him. "' _No_ '?"

Anduin, with his eyes fixed on the dragon, opened his mouth, but his voice died in his throat as a light dropped from above. Wrathion looked forward and then down, following the light's trajectory, to find a puddle of bubbling red liquid pooling at his feet. He staggered back, scrutinizing it. Lava? But—

Creed's deep laughter filled the chamber, and at the same time, so did an ugly, humid air.

"Likewise, Dovahkiin," a voice spoke, but certainly not Creed's; "I also expected more."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [dragon translations](http://textuploader.com/x4b6)
> 
> 'hiram' is a more dragon-y name than ' _creed_ ', so, i'm taking some liberties here. >:/ he still likes to be called creed cus, i dunno, he thinks it sounds cool? i mean isn't that why wrathion named himself _wrath_ ion. or neltharion named himself deathwing. dragons just like to give themselves cool and mildly-antagonistic-sounding names, ok.
> 
> i see where you were going with this whole "get anduin away from the draugr" thing, bolvar, but i'm pretty sure this is worse.


	9. Faal Lein Kreniik

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **content warnings:** misgendering, blood; mentions of impalement/burns, of death/dead bodies, of big creatures eating littler creatures (i don't think i'm ever going to figure out how to phrase that, sorry),  & of gagging

Chapter 9: Faal Lein Kreniik  
"The World Breaker"

———Hearth Fire 1st———

Two more drops of magma dripped down, mixing with the first. Wrathion stared at the puddle still, but that wasn't what he was thinking about. Creed hadn't stopped his low cackle, but a second voice from above, from elsewhere, had spoken. Wrathion couldn't make sense of it. Except he _could_ , because the White Pawn had already told him, once, when his voice was still weak and Wrathion had misheard or simply overlooked the warning. The difference had been so, _so_ subtle. Lost in the rasp of his voice, but crucial.

"Dragons," he whispered. The word tasted like ice.

Anduin had only barely heard him. "What did you—"

"You said _dragons_ ," he shouted, facing the prince again. "Dragons, _plural_!"

Anduin's mouth snapped closed. Wrathion was bursting with anger that blew past the prince like a hot wind. He felt it, winced at it, yet wondered if it was really him the Dragonborn was angry with. It didn't matter anyway; Wrathion had no time to continue, as a great force swept down from above. The gust it made disheveled their clothes, forcing them to brace themselves if only to stay on their feet. Wrathion spun forward again, and _there_ in the air, arcing around to land, was the hulking, volcanic dragon he'd been told about.

Deathwing.

Wrathion felt out of breath. Perhaps it was a literal feeling—he had, after all, been too annoyed with his dagger to use it much and relied instead on his Voice. Now it was practically spent, and it was dawning on him just how shortsighted the strategy had been.

But damn it, this wasn't his fault. Nobody told him there'd be _two_.

He inhaled deep through his nose. He straightened his back, leveled his shoulders and snapped a kink out of his neck. _Dragonborn,_ he reminded himself. He tilted his head toward the prince behind him, but his eyes stayed fixed on Deathwing, as the greater dragon landed beside Creed.

"Anything _else_ I should know, Prince Anduin?"

Anduin winced again. He had _tried_ to warn the Dragonborn, if he'd only shut up long enough to listen. "They breathe fire," he quipped, numbly, before he could think better of it.

Wrathion resisted rolling his eyes only because it would break the eye contact he'd secured. "Yes, _thank you_."

"You're welcome."

He swore he'd whack the prince with that hammer haft if he kept it up.

A deep growl shuddered the chamber. Both Wrathion and Anduin turned attentive of the dragons before them. It'd been Deathwing that'd rumbled; while Creed's breaths were enough to distill the room, it was as if the mountain itself shied at the sound of Deathwing's voice. The earth submitted to him. It followed his every command under the rule of fear.

Wrathion had never hated something as intensely as he hated the effect this dragon had on Skyrim.

"Are you the one they call World Breaker?" he asked, grinning, but it didn't reach his eyes. Or his voice, for that matter—he sounded hostile, nearly strained. Civility was but a front, and he'd never intended for it to be a convincing one in the first place.

"Lein Kreniik," Deathwing answered. Small rocks rattled on the cavern floor. "Yes."

Actually, he'd been wrong: Wrathion had never hated something as intensely as he hated the dragon himself. His grin vanished and he seethed, his red eyes resembling pyres more than they ever had. His next words were for the dragon alone, and he delivered them with that intention in mind.

"Zu'u nis _sarein_ wah vaaz sil nol hin qethhe, 'Lein Kreniik'."

Deathwing let out two rumbling laughs. The chamber shuddered under their weight. Wrathion didn't move, glaring upon the dragon with all that flaring, crackling hatred. He had always known he'd loathed dragons, since long before his arrival in Skyrim, but this was different. This was stronger, and he wanted nothing more than to tear this dragon, this _monster_ to shreds.

And he would, today, just as he'd warned the draugr.

He would break no worlds of Wrathion's.

Anduin saw the ignition in the way the Dragonborn's shoulder blades twisted, faintly, beneath his skin and fancy garb. He saw it and his stomach knotted tight, snagging his breath in his throat. His instinct came rushing back, and though it was much too late, he spoke regardless.

"Don't!"

Wrathion, of course, didn't listen. He sucked in a breath and lifted a foot, then struck out with both Shout and stomp. All at once came a single word— **Gol** —and a line of spikes, jutting out of the earth with their fine tips poised like sharp teeth at both dragons' feet. Creed lifted off, but Deathwing only raised a claw and smashed the spikes as they appeared. The scales on his paw truly could be likened to steel. The earthen spears couldn't have hoped to puncture the powerful hide as they were.

Creed let out a boisterous laugh from the air, wings beating with great surges of wind and noise as he looked upon the Dragonborn. "He's a feisty one! Allow me, Lein Kreniik."

His wings paused and then he dove for Wrathion. The Dragonborn nearly ducked aside, but Deathwing's voice rung out in a Shout that hurled Creed off course. The smaller dragon collided with the cavern wall, wings splaying at odd angles. Creed crumbled to the floor, his crash blowing a cloud of dust into the air that whisked through Wrathion's clothes. He shielded his eyes with an arm, but tried to look on even so. Creed snarled; the earth grumbled as he maneuvered in the rubble, attempting to right himself.

"Do not patronize me," Deathwing growled, but amusement clung to the quaking sound. "Let me see Skyrim's precious Dovahkiin for myself."

Something in the pit of Wrathion's stomach didn't play nice with all the aching hatred that burned through the rest of him. He ignored it and grinned. "I'm flattered, _Deathwing_."

The great dragon harrumphed. "Deathwing. Is that what you've taken to calling me?"

"You're welcome to introduce yourself," Wrathion said.

Deathwing tilted his head, thinking. "No," he said. "I think I like it."

Wrathion frowned. That would put the slightest damper on _that_ nickname.

"As I said," Deathwing rose his voice; it was as if the walls shied back to make room for the booming noise. "I expected more. The mighty Dovahkiin is nothing more than a _little boy_."

Wrathion's body cinched and his lip curled. He didn't think, right then, to correct either. The word sounded even nastier than usual, entombed in this loathsome dragon's voice.

"I'm not a _boy_ ," he snarled, and only then did he realize the sting the word had inflicted on him. "I'm _Dragonborn_ ," he added, hastily, reining in his lost temper and searching himself for purchase away from what would only be perceived as petty.

"I called you as much," Deathwing reminded him, almost idly. The Dragonborn's spiking anger meant nothing to the World Breaker.

Wrathion could only growl. He _hated_ this creature!

"Your Voice may be inspiring among mortals," Deathwing went on, tilting his head away from where he'd had it cocked last, "but among Dov, you reveal yourself as what you are. A child."

He'd braced himself for the dragon to use that wretched word again, and found it much easier to resist flaring when it hadn't even resurfaced to taunt him. ' _Child_ ' he could deal with, though it wasn't _much_ of an improvement. He realized his spine had curled like an angry cat and winced, irritated, as he straightened his back and aligned his shoulders.

"Perhaps," Deathwing continued still, even as Wrathion had opened his mouth to retort, "we should compare."

His anger and the faded prickling of that word made Deathwing's statement slow to digest. He snapped his mouth closed and pinched his eyebrows together, struggling to unravel the dragon's meaning, but when he did, he had only a moment to react. Deathing breathed in and lifted one of his huge paws, mimicking the Dragonborn's own showy gesture from before. The heat of Wrathion's frustration was blown away by a wave of frigid revelation.

" **Gol**!" bellowed the dragon's great Voice as his paw struck the floor.

The cavern wailed as the ground exploded in a wave of massive, sharpened peaks. Wrathion's mind whirled with his feet as he twisted and dug a heel into the floor before, without considering his own Voice's badly depleted strength, Shouting one frantic word of power.

" **Wuld**!"

A burst of force propelled him forward. The Shout was weak with only one word, but it was enough to narrowly escape the surf of jagged earth. His footing didn't know what to do with the launch, and he tripped up on his own ankles, forced into a lopsided somersault. Even with the clumsy mistake, he still landed in an upright crouch. He let out a single, shaken breath and looked up, only meaning to observe the mutated earth, but a sharp scream caught his ear through the still contorting cavern floor and he realized he'd forgotten something in the haste:

The White Pawn.

Wrathion cursed, loudly, and rose to his feet. He hauled himself over the massive spikes and balanced precariously between two, scouting through the confusion below with the hope that the colors to stand out against the dull stone would be a mess of gold, not red. But he only saw the serrated earth, and no sign of any clumsy, troublesome nord princes.

He knew this crass rescue mission was just going to give him a headache. Who in their right mind would send the Dragonborn after _boys_? He sneered, regretting the question as the offending word put a bad taste in his mouth.

"Prince Anduin," he called out, concern failing to win out over his mounting aggravation.

The answer was slow, but to some relief, it came. "I'm here."

Wrathion looked up, the prince's voice coming from farther ahead than he'd anticipated. Miraculously, and despite his ruined leg, Anduin had managed to evade the wave as well, though his left arm bled with a fresh gash. He'd even escaped without use of a Shout, which Wrathion nearly didn't believe. But there he was, albeit collapsed on his right side and cringing badly as he gripped his thigh. Either one of the injuries explained why he'd screamed before.

"You should consider staying out of the way," Wrathion chided.

Even beneath all his evident pain, Anduin still found the nerve to glare at him. But the prince was still readily worried for him. "Are you—"

Wrathion remained uninterested with fussing any further. The prince was alive; that was as much as his father had demanded. "Find a corner and hide in it. I'll be with you shortly."

Anduin blinked once, hard, but if he'd tried to say anything else, Wrathion hadn't heard. He leapt off the spikes and turned, seeking Deathwing's fire eyes through the heavy dust still lingering in the air. When Wrathion couldn't find them, he moved up, emerging from the messy air back into the open chamber. Perhaps he should've seen the bout of fire coming—or at least heard it—but in the high cavern, it was easy enough to dodge back from. He landed near the stream running down to the Word Wall; the water splashed under his left boot.

Deathwing croaked out another laugh, craning his long neck toward the Dragonborn. "Do you see now, Dovahkiin?"

"So you fight dirty," Wrathion jeered, and he was even amused with himself. But he couldn't keep the brief smirk on his face, because jokes aside, he _did_ see. They both had only used one word, but Deathwing's Shout had nearly taken down the cavern, whereas he'd smacked Wrathion's same Shout aside like weeds in his way.

 _It doesn't matter,_ he reminded himself. He was Dragonborn.

Deathwing must have seen his renewed confidence, because he grinned, wickedly, and with the faintest trace of mock pity.

"Hefhah."

Wrathion had had enough of the monster. His eyes darted to the left, where the Word Wall sat upon its great perch, then he sucked in a deep breath through his nose and ducked into a sprint. Deathwing replied in turn, attempting to stomp the Dragonborn into paste as he scurried across the cavern floor, but Wrathion was annoyingly quick. For every direct attack, he was gone by the time Deathwing's foot landed. When he tried to aim ahead of the Dragonborn's path, Wrathion simply adjusted his route. Successfully, he passed Deathwing and made his way up the side of the platform and the wall after it with nearly as much speed—bless the rogues and their mastery in agility! He perched on the corner, to the right of the mosaic of black stones that made an image of a dragon head, and faced the World Breaker below with a pleased grin on his face. Deathwing craned his head up, meeting Wrathion's proud face as a Shout welled in the pit of the Dragonborn's chest.

" **Yol** ," he growled, and bright fire ignited in his throat. " **Toor**!"

The heat flared viciously in his mouth, and with a sharp breath he went to let it loose. But all that came forth was a dim spurt, as small and insignificant as a sigh in the cold. It disappeared from sight as quick as such too. For only a moment was Wrathion confused; then his lungs ached badly, as if bruised, and he realized the problem. His magic was on the brink of empty. His Voice was dead in his throat.

Deathwing could only laugh at the unfortunate display, but it was brief. The World Breaker inhaled, the sound clear in Wrathion's ears. The Dragonborn realized a Shout was coming, but couldn't retreat before Deathwing's massive Voice swallowed the chamber in a great echo.

" **Fus** , **Ro Dah**!"

The air rippled for just a moment, and then an unrelenting force collided with the corner of the Wall. The earth burst into dust and rubble, and instantly Wrathion was lost within the chaos. His perch came out from under him and disappeared; he tried to twist back toward the Wall, in some desperate, nonsensical effort to grab something, but there was nothing to see, let alone reach for. Blurring shades of brown and gray spun around him for one long, disorienting second.

Then he struck the floor and stars exploded across his eyes.

He didn't move—he didn't know if it was because he _couldn't_ or because he was afraid to. Either way, every muscle in his body was tense; knotting, straining and threatening to break like overworked rope. The ceiling, or whatever he was looking at was a confusion of flickering dots, until it turned dark and blurred, the shift so sudden it took him whole seconds to realize he'd shut his eyes. His shoulder blades felt numbly cold, and he almost thought it wouldn't hurt, but then the adrenaline rush lapsed and the agony set forth, as if his own fire breath had launched down his throat instead of into the open air, searing every inch of him from the inside out.

The ground shook, afraid, and Wrathion willed his eyes back open. Black movement grazed his attention through the bleary darkness, but aside from the faintest awareness of these things, Wrathion didn't understand. He heard that rumbling, terrible voice, but he couldn't make it out. Instead, only those three words of power resounded through his mind, as blurred and faint as his vision.

_Fus, Ro Dah._

_Fus, Ro Dah._

_Force—_

"Dovahkiin."

Wrathion blinked, once. His sight flickered and then cleared; his ears unblocked. Staring down at him were those hellish eyes, bright like the very fire Deathwing had attempted to engulf Wrathion with before. What unholy magic it was. He pictured those very flames on the charred corpses he'd seen in the mouth of Bleak Falls, in the blackened patches of Deputy Willem's wounds, on Prince Anduin Wrynn's unsalvageable right leg.

His chest clenched. He didn't want to feel it on him.

Deathwing sneered. "I expected more."

Wrathion could only flinch, and even that hurt every strained or split muscle in his body. The next words he heard were the last he'd said—that fiery Shout—and already his nerves went wild, imagining the flames stripping his flesh away. Unlike the last time he'd been claimed by fear, he couldn't even pretend it wasn't such. But his body wouldn't move—it _couldn't_ move, and he was forced to watch as that unholy fire welled in Deathwing's mouth, curling around his massive teeth, reflecting in his black scales. The flames swelled as Deathwing inhaled, and though he still hadn't moved, Wrathion's mind went sickeningly numb as if he were about to faint. His vision went dark when he shut his own eyes and his ears filled with the sound of his rushing blood, and the very next things he expected to see and hear would be light and fire.

And he was right.

His eyelids went from black to a stinging shade of red, and the fire poured down with a screaming rush. For one agonizing moment, his skin erupted with sensations of heat and pain, but as quick as they'd flared, they went silent. The only heat he felt was that of the blood in his veins, and the only pain were all those bruised muscles. He felt no flames eating him away, yet he still saw the red and still heard the blast.

And something else. Something small, drowned out by the sound of the raging fire. He almost dismissed it, but he heard it again, and as his ears cleared it became obvious the sound was real, and in fact, his own name.

" _Wrathion_! Open your eyes!"

Despite that he _very much_ didn't want to, Wrathion did. What he saw was the red fire, but it splayed away from him, crashing to the earth around him instead. Layers of gold were what deterred it, their resemblance to bird wings uncanny, and made of the same light that curled and floated around the White Pawn's arms, from palms to shoulders. He laid above Wrathion, a hand on either side of the Dragonborn's head, his teeth clenched together and his eyes struggling to keep open. The prince's expression flickered from one of concentration and great pain to a trace of relief when Wrathion blinked at him, stunned and, in all honesty, unable to believe what he was seeing.

Not the sight of Anduin Wrynn. No, the moment he'd laid eyes on the prince's hurting face, the words that'd crossed Wrathion's mind were 'of course'. _Of course_ he would hurl himself over the Dragonborn, underneath the very hellfire that had mangled his leg, that had destroyed Helgen before his own eyes. He didn't know a damn thing about the prince and it was obvious, suddenly, that this was the only possible thing he could've expected to happen, when Deathwing opened his mouth with the White Pawn just nearby. After all, hadn't Willem told Wrathion that he'd done just the same for his Captain Taylor?

What surprised Wrathion—what was nearly impossible to believe—was that they weren't _both_ dead. That layer of gold light, the shield of mystifying feathers Anduin had somehow managed to cast in his miserable condition, was by some wild miracle powerful enough to ward off every ember of Deathwing's Shout. Buried beneath the wingspread, they were safe.

 _That's_ what Wrathion couldn't believe, and in the midst of his bewilderment, he found his voice.

"What in _Oblivion_ are y—"

But the words barely left his mouth, and the moment Anduin lurched, crying out under his barred teeth, Wrathion feared it was the words themselves that had compromised the prince's ward. The wings visibly flickered as Anduin struggled to hold onto them. They contorted beneath the weight of Deathwing's fire breath, threatening to collapse under the burden. Wrathion shut his mouth, horrified, cursing himself for saying anything at all. He'd been wrong—they _weren't_ safe. Anduin's magic was only delaying the inevitable, and only by a few mortifying seconds.

But they were enough. Wrathion's pain had vanished—or had shut up, he wasn't sure. And his Voice surged within his chest without so much as thinking to summon it. Beneath the layers of his armor pulsated a blessing of stamina, one Wrathion was only vaguely aware was the Amulet of Kynareth. Those few seconds, the pendant and perhaps the awakened terror were all Wrathion had needed to recover from his devastating fall.

He reached up and snatched Anduin's arms; tendrils of golden magic licked at Wrathion's hands, mending not only small cuts received from fooling around this dank cavern, but even calluses and shallow scars that were months if not years old. Restoration magic was a truly remarkable thing, one Wrathion only had a growing respect for the longer it held up against dragon attacks. His fingernails dug into Anduin's sleeves, tearing the fabric, but he couldn't focus on more than pulling the prince as far down and thus as far back from the fire as possible, and pouring every recovered bit of magic into his Voice.

" **GOL**!"

The earth quaked, vibrating against Wrathion's back. Waves of rock rose up on either side of the pair, drowning the blinding red of the fire under the gold of Anduin's magic as the stone curtains cut off the flames. The weight of the fire disappeared from Anduin's shield, and it flickered away not a moment after as Anduin gasped, relieved of the burden. He'd have collapsed on top of Wrathion if the Dragonborn hadn't held onto him still, sitting up and wrapping an arm around the prince's waist. In a swift motion that tore into the muscles in his back, Wrathion found his feet and rose upon them, practically lugging Anduin up with him. He staggered away from Deathwing, dragging Anduin when his leg wouldn't permit him to keep up on his own.

Just barely, they cleared the earthen archway before the force of the fire crushed it. The impact shook the ground and knocked Wrathion to the floor again. With an arm still wrapped around Anduin, he could only spare one hand to break the fall. Fortunately, Anduin used his other, and the damage of the fall was minimal; the worst was Wrathion's back, the muscles flaring with pain. He growled, his mind whirling as he tried to convince his body to rise again. He barely registered Anduin rolling over beside him, and it was only when the ground shuddered again that Wrathion realized Deathwing was encroaching upon them. He heard the World Breaker snarl out that first word of power, and he heard the fwoosh of another fire lighting in Deathwing's throat.

Then he heard a second flame ignite.

Wrathion's eyes shot back just in time to see the gold sphere in Anduin's hand—a sphere that hurt Wrathion's eyes to look at, as sun magic always seemed to—before he fired it upon the dim, yellow-white cracks in Deathwing's chest. The sphere impacted just as Deathwing had tried to launch his Shout, and the fire vanished from the World Breaker's mouth as gracelessly as Wrathion's attempt had before. What exploded into the room, instead, was a deafening wail as sparks popped and light bled from Deathwing's chest. It was as if a sun were bursting from the wound. It hurt Wrathion's eyes just to watch; he and Anduin both were forced to turn away from the sight. The cavern shook in terror of Deathwing's pain and anger. Wrathion ducked his head as parts of the ceiling collapsed around them, and reached to lay an arm over Anduin too, but he stopped at the clusters of golden dust, almost like stars, that clung to the prince's shoulders. Wrathion squinted, momentarily transfixed in puzzling out the marvel.

The chamber's collapse ceased, but Deathwing's rage did not.

" **HIRAM**!" he roared with all the force of a Shout, tearing fissures through the floor at the sheer power of his Voice.

Wrathion recognized the beat of Creed's wings through the rest of the commotion, and lifted his head to look back. The lesser dragon swooped down and landed in front of Deathwing, who had staggered back. His chest bled profusely with white-gold liquid. Wrathion couldn't tell if it was lava or some element of the sun magic, but either way it looked painful and disgusting and he was thrilled.

"Du niin," Deathwing snarled, his pain heavy in his voice, "wah niist _qethhe_!"

Creed's ugly laughter filled the cavern at the order. He marched forward, wild eyes gleaming with anticipation at the pair before him. The floor shook as Deathwing lifted off, snarling and hissing as his great wings bludgeoned the dusty air around him.

Outrage surged in Wrathion's chest.

"You!" he shouted into the chamber, finally finding the will to sit up. "Where are you going?!"

Deathwing didn't answer. He smashed his large head through the already punctured ceiling of the chamber. Rubble collapsed and moonlight poured in from outside. With a heavy launch of his wings, like magma from the mouth of a mountain, Deathwing surged into the night sky. He vanished from sight a moment later.

Wrathion ground his teeth, lips curled. He forgot himself, finding his feet and snarling as he went to pursue the World Breaker—how, he hadn't thought of.

Creed's paw slammed down on the earth in front of him. The shudder wasn't as impressive as what Deathwing could've done, but it still knocked Wrathion back down, striking his head and wounded back against the ground. His shoulders pulsed badly with pain and he cried out; the fall from the wall had done great damage to the muscles and perhaps even the bones in his back. Wrathion ground his teeth again, struggling to sit up, but the pain was incapacitating. Something touched his shoulder; his eyes shot open then squinted. Anduin sat at his head, one hand urging the Dragonborn to stay down. The other fought, futilely, to kindle even an ember of sun magic, but his energy was sapped from the ward and the damage he'd inflicted on Deathwing.

Similarly, Wrathion's lungs were back to aching. His Voice was just as exhausted.

Creed laughed again, but this one was short. "How sad," he chided, observing the Dragonborn with a malice that dug deeper into Wrathion's nerves than it had before. "To think you're all that stands against us."

A spark took pity on Anduin's struggle; he fired it at Creed, who only had to snort out the word ' **Fus** ' to send it spiraling into the stream where it cracked and fizzled out. Anduin winced, making a noise, and hunched some above Wrathion. He moved his hand from the Dragonborn's shoulder so that he could push it into the ground, in a desperate attempt to stay righted. Wrathion's own exhaustion rooted him in place anyway. He could only look upon the hurting prince, who was easier to observe than Creed, as the latter required him to crane his neck down toward his chest.

"Of course, pardon me," Creed said insincerely. "You and the nord boy."

"Why?" Anduin managed to ask.

Creed snorted, amused, but he crooked an eyebrow. "'Why'?" he echoed.

"Why Helgen?" he said, looking upon the dragon. "Why are you killing—"

"Don't be naive," Wrathion said, his voice annoyingly weak as well, but his eyes, though dull, reflecting all his frustration just the same. "Do you know nothing about dragons?"

Anduin frowned, but he didn't look away from Creed. "I've heard the stories," he said, his voice quiet now.

"Then you've heard your answers," Wrathion said.

Anduin remained unconvinced. He _had_ heard the stories—both the ones he was sure Wrathion thought he meant, and the ones Lady Katrana told him. On the surface, they were perhaps the same, but there was more to them than Anduin could know.

Except, now there was a dragon in front of him, who spoke with words Anduin could understand and work with. He had to try, didn't he?

"I just want to know—"

"Shut up," Creed drawled, presenting his annoyance.

Wrathion felt the prince tense and rolled his eyes. "I told you so, Prince Anduin."

Anduin fired him a look, but instantly regretted it when Creed shifted closer. Anduin raised his arm and tried, desperately, to put up a ward. The barrier flickered to life for just a moment, then disappeared; Anduin's body ached badly for the trouble. Creed laughed once and continued his approach. Wrathion stiffened this time, and he ignored the terrible pain in his back and pulled himself somewhat up, using his legs to push back. His shoulders met Anduin's chest, and while Wrathion thought to make him move, the shaking of his arms, which he'd perched on the floor for stability, warned him that if he tried to move much farther, he'd only collapse anyway.

Creed's mouth parted as he sighed out a single word of power. Fire blossomed in his throat, curling out the corners of his mouth, eager for its release. Wrathion felt the prince's empty body still trying to conjure even a little magic, but it was useless and he was only hurting himself at this point. Wrathion clucked his tongue, his teeth starting to ache as they clenched together. Anduin's stunt had saved them once, but he hadn't the means to do it again, though he was trying. Wrathion had no trick of his own, either. Without his Voice, all he had left was a—

Oh.

"You _idiot_ ," he hissed below his breath.

Anduin leaned to his left, surprised by the Dragonborn's outburst. "What?"

"A moment," Wrathion said, with a spark of confidence reminiscent of before, when he'd thought the only thing of interest in this chamber was a Word Wall. Some theory that had turned out to be.

Wrathion lifted his right hand from the floor; the disturbance in balance threatened his left arm badly, but Anduin was quick enough to stabilize him. The touch of his hands sent ripples of pain through Wrathion's back, but he ignored them and, with a swift, agile motion, plucked his ugly Whiterun dagger from his hip. He twirled it once in his hand, sparing it one last, numb look.

"Good riddance," he scoffed, and with a hard flick of the arm, sent it flying between Creed's teeth.

A splash of blood bloomed in Creed's throat, soaking the flame in an instant. Creed hacked and gagged, spattering large patches of red across the cavern floor. Some embers survived, but they shot out in unspecified streams, burning up in midair and making no danger of themselves.

For a moment, and only a moment, Creed was distracted by the blade in his throat. Wrathion hadn't planned any farther than that, but he improvised quickly. He twisted to his left, grabbed for Anduin's shirt and ignored how every motion of his arm sent pulses of pain through his back. The prince hesitated only when it concerned his right leg; otherwise he tried to hurry with Wrathion. The Dragonborn found his footing again and hauled up Anduin, yelling out as his shoulder blades burned. They could've made it, Wrathion was certain, if he'd just been a little faster.

Creed smashed the floor with his front paws, quaking the earth and staggering the pair. Anduin fell back to the floor, a blinding surge of agony launching through him from his right knee; he'd fallen on it. Wrathion tried to pull him back up, but the prince's whole body convulsed in involuntary protest to being moved and Wrathion stumbled, landing on his own hands and knees again. He sputtered a pained curse; they were too broken for this.

One of Creed's claws crashed down just feet ahead of Wrathion. The dragon's heavy shadow loomed over them, his neck craning down to sneer upside-down at them, blood dripping through his reddened teeth. Wrathion shied back, a hand latching onto Anduin's regalia again. _What for?_ his mind immediately chided. There was nowhere to go, and no way to get there regardless.

"Got'cha," Creed snarled, specks of blood spattering as he spoke.

Wrathion felt cornered. It was an unnerving, unacceptable feeling, and one he refused to submit to. He grimaced badly only at the thought, but tried regardless to Shout. " **Krii**!"

He felt a tiny spurt of power, but like the fire he'd attempted to breathe earlier, it disappeared on his lips and only left his body hurting. Creed laughed, but it was angry. His throat stung horribly from the laceration inside, and he intended to make the Dragonborn suffer for it.

"Pruzah vulon, Dov Ah Kiin."

Then Creed uttered a Shout, and fire once more ignited in his throat. Wrathion's mind spun. He again shifted back, but Creed stood above them both and there was no way out that'd be quick enough to evade the growing flames. A hand gripped his sleeve, but he didn't look. He knew, by now, who kept grabbing him.

"Wrathion—"

"Shut up," Wrathion interrupted. There was a lack of malice to his voice; he was only quiet and distracted. He needed to think. Anduin's grip tightened with a tug and Wrathion's annoyance flared. "I said—"

"Can you dance?"

Wrathion blinked. He glanced at Anduin.

" _What_?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [dragon translations](http://textuploader.com/xqia)
> 
> is now really the time, anduin. like don't you think you have anything better to do than crack really badly timed jokes. (i say, cracking jokes in my narrative every other sentence.)
> 
> anyway, this is why you bring healers to raids. not to crack jokes, i mean, shut up, i mean the shield thing. dammit.


	10. Duaan Se Dov

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **content warnings:** death/dead bodies, blood/burns/impalement, an embarrassing thing because guess who's trash YOU'RE RIGHT it's me, mentions of disembowelment

Chapter 10: Duaan Se Dov  
"Dragon Eater"

———Hearth Fire 1st———

"Kill me."

Left glanced at the other agent, ashen and shivering without restraint. Right hadn't meant the words, nor had she meant them the last four times she'd said them, idly, as her bones rattled and her teeth chattered. Left paid her no further mind, knowing she didn't have to. Right said such things only to get them out of her system; engaging her would be pointless. Any offer to stop or otherwise amend her predicament would be promptly declined, because she had a job to do and she didn't mean the words.

Left couldn't say she understood the process, frankly, but it was Right's process and she just as frankly couldn't be bothered to make sense of it anymore.

"When I freeze to death, slowly burn my corpse into the smallest, finest ashes you can," Right grumbled, shivering still. "And then cast those ashes into the warmest corner of this wretched country you can find."

Left just hummed.

"What's that one Shout," Right continued, lifting her head some before deciding, promptly, that letting the cold wind swipe her neck had been a terrible mistake. She groaned. "Vol? Yel—"

"Yol," Left mumbled.

"That's it," Right said. She shuddered, then groaned again. "Yol..."

She continued to mumble it occasionally, especially when the wind picked up. After a while, her voice got quiet and she eventually stopped entirely. Left let the silence draw on before speaking again.

"Better?"

Right only groaned. Left allowed an amused smirk.

The earth shivered faintly under their feet. They looked down together, any trace of humor or discomfort pushed aside. Left was the first to look away, examining the surrounding area. Right was slower, thinking hard to make sense of the gentle quake.

No good explanation came to mind. She sighed and then shuddered. She looked up at the peak; Bleak Falls was still hours away. The wind whistled past her, taunting her. She scrunched her eyes closed and shivered harder.

"Kill me."

Snow crunched, signaling Left's departure. Right took a deep breath, sniffled and pursued her partner up the trail. It hadn't snowed since Whiterun past through and their footprints still laid sprawled through the snow, easy to follow. Only the occasional low stream of wind had mussed the tracks at all, and it wasn't nearly enough to throw them off. Anything smarter than the wild dogs prowling the mountain could follow it.

"He isn't just here for the dragon," Left said.

Right pinched her eyebrows, glancing at the orc. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard the prophet," Left said, "when you asked him about the nord king's mission."

She had heard his answer, that was true. "'Something to that effect'," she recalled aloud.

Left hummed affirmatively. "There's something else."

"Like what?" Right fussed, glancing up at the distant barrow. "What else could possibly be at the top of this gods-forsaken peak?"

Left glanced at her expectantly. Right pursed her lips. Apparently, she was supposed to know.

So she took the time to think about it. There was, of course, the dragon. Her mind crossed Sharkbait again, and her eyebrows scrunched some, considering what they'd learned from him. He'd been part of a security detail that had been returning from Cyrodiil until their bad luck in Helgen. They were captured and taken to this barrow, she knew now, but Sharkbait fled when the dragon caught his regiment escaping, while others stayed to help their comrades, including his charge, the White—

Ah.

The White Pawn, who they'd learned in Whiterun was Prince Anduin Wrynn, was last heard of trapped atop the same mountain that Deathwing was supposedly lairing in now. The same mountain Wrathion was ascending with a highlord and a band of lionhearted goons.

"King Wrynn wants his son back," Right said.

Left hummed.

Right scoffed. Perhaps she shouldn't have been surprised, but the chances of the White Pawn being alive after almost fifteen days in a literal crypt struck her as obviously unlikely, and a little ironic. Then again, nords were so blindly optimistic in all the wrong ways. She did smirk, however, at the thought of what must have been Wrathion's indignant face when this demand had cropped up. To be reduced to a nord king's errand-runner must have infuriated him.

"How fun," she teased.

Left didn't respond that time. Right, as always, didn't take it personally. Silence resumed for some time, during which Right connected the last of the pieces. Sending a dozen soldiers and the highlord suddenly made more sense as well. And Velen was a mentor of Anduin Wrynn's, or so Right had heard, so that made more sense too. Left was right about her unspoken theory, as far as Right could tell. Wrathion's arrangement with Whiterun surely had as much to do with their prince as it did their dragon infestation.

The mountain shook again, harder this time. Right's eyes shot up to the barrow. Great gray clouds of something plumed up short of the peak, slightly stark against the black sky behind it. Right squinted, trying to determine what the clouds were made of. She thought snow, at first—based on the color, at least, that would've been the obvious choice—but the specks were too fine, she realized a moment later.

Left figured it out first. "The ceiling's collapsed."

Right tilted her chin up, her mouth open in a silent 'ah'. "Dust," she said. Her eyebrows pinched. "But why—"

The answer to her question exploded from the same place as the clouds of dust had moments before. An enormous blur of reddish-black, streaked with cracks that looked miniscule from how far they were, glowing unnervingly bright shades of red and yellow and white. Liquid fire. Featherless wings.

Right's eyes went wide.

Deathwing.

The agents watched in stunned silence as the hulking beast arced in the black sky, nearly invisible except for those volcanic lines rending his steeled hide. Spheric drops of the same color occasionally dripped from the cracks, disappearing somewhere on the mountain, behind trees or crags. The frigid night's air shrank the bright gashes in Deathwing's scales, the cold chasing the magma back within the monster's broken body. He let out a staggering roar; the mountain shivered under the weight of his booming voice.

He circled the peak only once, eventually veering off almost due west. It was hard to make out his black shape against the sky, but doable. The Blacktalons stared on, quiet for a moment longer. They exchanged a glance at the same time, the same question on the tips of their tongues.

If Deathwing was retreating, what did that say for the Dragonborn?

There was no way to answer the question yet. Their exchange broke; Right cursed, moving away, while Left took a moment to seethe through her nose. The frustration could only be permitted for a moment. Then it was back to business.

"I'll track the beast," Left growled.

Right pressed her lips together and then blew air, glaring off at nothing. "I'll find the Dragonborn," she said after a moment.

They looked at each other again. There was little more to discuss. Except...

"If he's dead?" Right asked.

Left scoffed.

Right's eyebrows pinched, but she soon shrugged and clucked her tongue. Left had a point. Better just to run with the assumption he wasn't. It kept them both with a job that way.

"Find him," Left said.

Right frowned. "Ditto."

Left flashed her second smirk that night, then whipped around, ponytail striking out, to descend the mountain. Right, free of her partner's gaze, took a deep, steadying breath. The cold was the last of her problems, now. She glanced at the dwindling cloud of dust on the peak, now carried a ways off by the wind. She released the breath she'd taken before. Better to assume he was alive. It kept her with a job.

And Wrathion would be furious if she let him get killed.

She smirked, a muted laugh rumbling in her chest, and started back up the trail.

———Hearth Fire 1st———

Anduin Wrynn was grinning. It was an all around absurd face for him to be making at a moment like this, wild not just with the relentless fear trembling in his lips, but the unfounded excitement sparkling in his eyes. The question he'd asked was still whirling in Wrathion's mind, illegible as the Dragonborn tried to snatch the words and finally digest them.

" _What_?" he repeated, baffled and on the brink of outright offended.

Anduin didn't elaborate, or perhaps didn't have time to. Light crept into the edge of Wrathion's eyes; he cringed, fear reclaiming him, as his gaze shot toward Creed's burning maw again. He saw the wave of gold, searing his vision just looking upon it, but he realized, a moment later, that not only was the light _behind_ Creed's upside-down head, but dragon fire didn't hurt his eyes that way.

He blinked, and for the third time, ' _what_ ' rang out through his mind.

Then the faraway light was suddenly close, and Wrathion realized it was moving. The fear came crashing back as it struck Creed, flaring brilliantly. The dragon screamed, craning his snuffed, smoking mouth away. In fact, the dragon's whole body lurched and stumbled, the earth rattling violently below.

Wrathion was so utterly, completely confused. Between fear and bewilderment, he couldn't not have yelped when Anduin grabbed his elbow, trying to haul the Dragonborn up. He could only comply, numbly; only the prince's restrained gasp at his own wounded leg snapped Wrathion into some kind of initiative. He reached out to grab onto Anduin, his feet finding purchase in the quaking earth underneath him, and gave the prince somewhere to lean that wasn't his leg. Ever aware of Creed thrashing just above them, they struggled to dodge his flailing claws, nearly taking nasty slices once or twice. They emerged from Creed's shadow into the moonlight, just in time for the dragon to throw down his weight and shake the earth hard enough to, once again, throw the pair into the dirt. They landed on a slant, and their impact was enough to ignite a momentum that sent them tumbling down the incline until Wrathion crashed, on his raw, blazing back, in a thin bed of moss that barely cushioned him from the stones underneath. He snarled through his teeth, and the prince's weight on his chest didn't help at all.

He was quickly relieved of the latter, at least. Anduin pushed himself onto his hands, now hovering above Wrathion. The Dragonborn willed his eyes open, met with the sight of the gasping prince, eyebrows crooked in a silent question regarding Wrathion's condition. Wrathion could only blink, still trying to make sense of what the _hell_ had just happened. Had Anduin done that? He didn't know how he could have, but the prince had had a hand in every other golden magic trick Wrathion had witnessed.

The whirling confusion was interrupted when Anduin made that same absurd grin. "I guess not," he panted, referring to his earlier question.

Wrathion stared, and suddenly there was a tickle in his throat and he was grinning too.

"That was," he said, realizing he was also breathless, "the _worst_ dance I have ever seen."

Anduin erupted into a fit of laughter.

"Let's—" Wrathion stopped himself, trying to catch his breath, but he only gasped instead, "— _never_ do that again. What do you say?"

"No," Anduin agreed. "Never again."

Wrathion grinned harder and found he was laughing too.

Creed roared, a guttural sound that silenced the pair and wiped the looks from their faces. Anduin's head craned back to search for the dragon, but Wrathion could already see he hadn't followed them down the incline. His ears stung with the clatter of plate and steel, and he squinted especially, trying to comprehend the noises.

"Wait," Anduin said—or more of breathed, perhaps, as Wrathion nearly missed the sound entirely.

He couldn't say anything before Anduin was scrambling off of him, hauling himself up the slant despite how evidently it hurt him to do as much. Wrathion hissed and rolled into a sit, perched on his right elbow, before he managed to crawl after the prince. Anduin, of course, was able to look over the top of the incline first, but Wrathion, free from the burden of a charred leg, was hardly a second behind.

Over the crown of the slant, Wrathion quickly found Creed's massive black form again. Smoke rose from his head, neck and shoulders; patches of scales were seared off or otherwise badly mangled, as if struck by flames, but—that was ridiculous. Dragons were hardly affected by fire, at least dragons with an affinity for it, like Creed. So how—

He cringed as a painful stream of light shot into his line of sight and struck Creed in the snout. Creed wailed, furious and in great pain, as he shied away from where the light had come from.

Wrathion realized as Anduin, delighted but by now not surprised, articulated the thought himself. "Bolvar!"

 _Of course,_ Wrathion's mind rung. Of course the wave of painful light he'd seen before had been Bolvar's sun magic. Anduin must have recognized it; that's where that absurd face had come from.

And just as it had enraged Deathwing, the magic did remarkable damage to Creed as well. Burned, smoking and in evident pain, the dragon, with his throat too cut apart to Shout effectively, was being pushed back by measly Whiterun soldiers. And there were more than just Bolvar—four, Wrathion could count. He wondered, briefly, what had become of the other half, but he couldn't afford to dwell on the thought.

He planted his hands into the stone below him and rose to his feet, cringing at the way his shoulder bones flared and tensed at the motion. He wobbled, even, and despite Anduin's excitement, he was prompt to notice.

"You're hurt," he blurted quickly, before Wrathion could take more than a couple steps forward.

" _You're_ hurt," Wrathion snapped, and continued before Anduin could argue. " _I'm_ Dragonborn."

"With no Voice," Anduin said, pointedly; the reminder did, in fact, feel something like a cut in Wrathion's back. It was his turn to try and retort only to be spoken over. "I know what happened back there. With Creed and before that, with Deathwing. You can't Shout anymore—I saw."

Of course he did.

Wrathion snarled, irritated, but pressed on toward the battle anyway. He heard rocks shuffling behind him and, though he urged himself to ignore it, still turned around to find Anduin trying to rise to his feet.

"Prince Anduin," the Dragonborn said, allowing a trace of frustration. "I believe I advised you to stay out of the way?"

"Good thing I didn't, right?" Anduin fired him a look.

Wrathion's lips, pressed together, rose slightly. The frustration was mounting. "If you die—"

"Whiterun will be devastated," Anduin cut in, hissing the words like he'd heard this exact argument a thousand times before. "If you die, all of _Skyrim_ will be devastated."

Wrathion, to his greatest frustration yet, went quiet. He couldn't be serious. This obnoxious nord prince was _not_ about to be the first to recognize Wrathion's critical role to this dragon crisis.

Anduin continued when Wrathion failed to. "Even if we defeat Creed, there's still Deathwing," he said. He softened. "You don't have to convince me we need you for that."

Wrathion blinked hard and laughed once, suddenly offended. He could _not_ be serious. " _Me_?" he repeated, on the brink of a yell. "If I recall, Prince Anduin, _you're_ the one that chased him off."

Anduin was as surprised hearing the angry compliment as Wrathion was saying it.

He smiled some. Wrathion just felt even more insulted, actually. Perhaps he just hadn't been paying attention earlier, because suddenly it seemed every upturn of the lip Anduin Wrynn made was just as absurd as the one cast seconds before what should've been their demise.

Which, again, was not prevented by Wrathion, but rather Bolvar.

He snarled again, and whipped away from Anduin.

"Wrathion—" the prince started.

"I have two objectives, Prince Anduin," Wrathion growled through another yell, this one contained whereas the other had cracked in his voice. "First, to slay the dragon—" something he'd already failed with Deathwing's escape, but he would use Creed to make up for that, "—and second, to bring you back to Whiterun. _Alive_."

Anduin could only scoff. He knew perfectly well this Dragonborn hadn't been very concerned with that half of his father's mission until it was convenient for him—in this case, as means of tethering Anduin to the side, out of the way, like everyone else he'd dealt with at one point or another.

Annoyingly—and no matter how much Anduin wanted to pretend otherwise—there was some proper truth to Wrathion's misuse of his mission. Getting himself killed would do no favors for anyone.

He scoffed again, softer, looking elsewhere. He hated it when they were right.

 _So,_ his mind spoke up as he leveled his shoulders. _I just won't get myself—_

"You there!" Wrathion's voice rung out, snapping Anduin from his thoughts.

One of the remaining Whiterun soldiers twisted her attention toward Wrathion. It was the nervous girl; one of the _especially_ curious grunts that had pestered him. The Dragonborn smirked, falsely pleasant, and flicked his wrist idly at Anduin.

"Keep an eye on him," he said.

Indignation flared in Anduin's chest. "You can't—"

"Don't let him do anything _valiant_."

The word sounded so remarkably like ' _stupid_ ' Anduin went silent. The soldier hurried over, oblivious to Wrathion now, or at least too busy with her relief at seeing Anduin still in one piece to care any longer.

"My prince," she said. Anduin couldn't tell where the breathlessness was coming from.

He was numb to her voice anyway. Wrathion, without another word, marched on toward the continuing battle with Creed. Anduin moved to follow, admittedly out of some spite, but not only did the soldier's arm fan out to block him, his leg reminded him, as rudely as it could, of just how hurt he was. Of just how little he could do, compared to a regiment, albeit a small one, of healthy, trained soldiers.

And Highlord Bolvar.

And the _Dragonborn_.

Anduin's jaw clenched. His hands balled into fists. He _hated_ it when they were right.

Creed's front was a mess of broken scales and red, burned flesh, but every wound inflicted brought out even more anger. Bolvar's sun magic permitted some distance from the dragon, as did the crossbows the remaining three soldiers were armed with. Creed was conservative with his Shouts, it seemed; the cut in his throat from Wrathion's dagger made every sound that came through his neck quite painful, and the longer he hissed and snarled at the tiny regiment scurrying around him, the harder it became to Shout.

But they remained his best weapon. So he forwent his concern with the pain, just for a moment, to growl out a single word of power. " **Yol**!"

A spurt—though rather large, given Creed's size—launched forth. Whiterun scattered, evading most of the attack, though one soldier's sleeve caught. Dragon fire was beyond what the spark of flint or even the spell of a wizard could muster; it was angry and alive, almost, and it, like its users, sought to destroy those beneath it. The soldier's scream came out as a mangled wail, stumbling along as he fought, in vain, to shake the flame out.

Creed's talon impaled him as his paw landed upon the soldier, splitting the steel and flattening him to the ground. Blood sputtered out of his mouth in bubbled waves. He went still in seconds, and Creed shook his corpse off, hurling him away. Distantly, his armor clattered against the stones, the sound all but lost in the upfront commotion of battle. Creed harrumphed at the display, only to crane his head back and narrowly escape a stream of sun magic that had sought to ravage the peeling, smoking scales on his face. Bolvar stood igniting another handful of the horrific light; its glow stung Creed's eyes and pricked his heart with a trace of fear.

Snarling, and hurting himself for the trouble, Creed stormed forward and struck out his claws. Bolvar leapt back, the sharp tips sailing just short of slicing his tabard to ribbons. Creed encroached still, blood splattering out of his growling mouth. The pain in his throat was unbearable, and fueled his desire to see this nord squashed and perhaps strung up on the monument behind Creed to rot here, just as Creed himself had once.

With his long neck, Creed snapped his teeth at Bolvar, again only barely missing the highlord. Bolvar, in turn, slammed a half-baked spell into the end of Creed's snout. He wailed, pained and furious, lumbering back and continuing to scream in complete anger.

With a Shout of three words, fire came gushing from Creed's mouth—an agonizing effort, but it came with fearsome results. Bolvar moved back, casting a ward when that proved insufficient. The barrier was struck, hard, by Creed's flames, and the force staggered Bolvar. He'd nearly fallen, but the lapse in concentration that vanquished his shield was of much greater concern. It was only luck that Creed's breath had run out in the same moment, but the lingering, momentary heat of the attack still snapped like the dragon's own teeth at Bolvar. He shut his eyes, taking three extra steps back; he protected his face with an arm.

His eyes, scalded by the hot air, refused to open even as the earth rumbled beneath Creed's approach. The dragon only took two steps, however, before pausing. A spiteful laugh left his mouth in the place of more fire.

"Highlord," a familiar, patronizing voice spoke; the sound was jarring after having listened to so much of Creed's snarling and Shouting.

At it, Bolvar willed his eyes open at last. He recognized who stood in front of him. "Dragonborn," he said, a trace of relief he hadn't realized was there until he heard it.

Wrathion tilted his head back over his shoulder, a glimmer of similar surprise in his own eye, before a snug grin winked it out. He snapped his head forward again, toward Creed, but he continued to direct his words to Bolvar.

"I believe we can help each other," he said, his tone thick with the teasing sense that they hadn't been working together all along. Perhaps they hadn't. Their objectives certainly hadn't aligned.

Speaking of. "Prince Anduin—"

"He's safe, as promised," Wrathion said. "Assuming your regiment knows how to princesit, that is."

Bolvar cringed and opened his mouth to retort, but Wrathion's grin flared and he ducked down just a bit, only drawing his body close like a coil, eyes fixed ahead.

"Hold that thought!" he said, leaping away from Bolvar's right side.

The highlord glanced up just in time to register Creed's hurdling head coming toward him and dodge similarly, distanced even farther from Wrathion. Creed's snout struck the earth instead, and he snarled, pained. Bolvar breathed, sharply, and with a trace of frustration.

"Your magic!" Wrathion yelled from the other side of the dragon's great head. "It is of use to me!"

"How so?" Bolvar said, aggravation clinging still to his raised voice.

"I'm a bit out of breath, so to speak!" Wrathion said. "I've been quite busy while you were fooling around with the draugr!"

Again, Bolvar cringed. ' _Fooling around_ ' was hardly the right phrase; the draugr had proved daunting to Bolvar and his regiment. That Shout, whatever it'd been, made getting close to the thing nigh impossible. His troop had suffered badly from the battle.

"Though I don't need my Voice to dispose of this drake, I _could_ use a hand!" Wrathion continued. There was something clashingly innocent about his expression; he looked, more than ever, like just a child.

Bolvar sensed mischief hidden behind the Dragonborn's smile. Creed's head swept toward Wrathion, who leapt away with the same impressive agility he'd utilized all through their descent into Bleak Falls. Bolvar wondered, though it wasn't the time, how Amber Kearnen had managed to apprehend such a slippery rogue as he. The thought disappeared as quickly as it'd intruded; Creed's attention had turned to Bolvar, and the dragon swung his claws at the highlord. He cast a layer of translucent gold over his left forearm—a purposely stationed ward, which acted famously as a steel shield. Creed's talons shrieked against the ward and slid clean off as Bolvar moved back.

"What did you have in mind?" the highlord shouted, even louder than before, hoping the Dragonborn, wherever he'd disappeared to, would hear.

Creed lurched, startled, then growled and craned his neck back over his own shoulder. Bolvar followed the dragon's eyes and caught a glimpse of Wrathion's bright tabard before whisking back from Creed's angry bite, again vanishing, this time behind the curtain that was Creed's wing. He must've been mad, skirting about on the dragon's nerves like a child teasing a horse.

Bolvar couldn't repress a laugh. Then again, what had he expected?

"Didn't I make that clear?" Wrathion's voice called out; how he'd appeared on the back of Creed's neck so fast, Bolvar had missed with a blink. "That magic the prophet showed you!"

Bolvar flexed his left hand; already, the sun-like warmth of the magic chased Bleak Falls' frigid air from his fingertips. Creed was not deaf, however, and dismissed Wrathion to snap at Bolvar instead. Bolvar nearly fired his spell preemptively, as he'd needed to earlier, but Wrathion's speed remained dizzying. He inhaled deeply, as if to Shout, but the show had only been to jab his boot into the peeled scales between the nape of Creed's neck and his biggest rightmost horn. The exposed flesh was soft as well as burned, and Creed shrieked at the sharp but fleeting pain. He swung his head wildly, attempting to unbalance Wrathion. He had a comfortable grip on the dragon's horn, however, and his foot was lodged safely in the reddened base.

It only took a few extra seconds for Bolvar's spell to flare, readied. He was quick to fire it as the momentum of Creed's flailing head had reached its slowest point. The hit was precise on Creed's snout and he wailed, black scales splitting from his face, revealing the scorched flesh underneath.

"Beautiful, Highlord!" Wrathion beamed, his voice only slightly skewed by Creed's thrashing. "Now, perhaps once mo—"

The dragon burst into the air; the rush of the wind was fast enough that Wrathion's grin was swept right off his face. He gave a flustered ' _whoa_ ' as his spare hand and foot swung out; the grip the rushing air seized on him nearly tore him from Creed's horn, but he managed to drive his right side forward, finding purchase for his hand and foot along the rigid horn. Out of hands, Wrathion could only look up to see where Creed was flying to. Instantly, he wished he'd let the wind sweep him off Creed's head. The cavern wall came hurling toward them—rather, Creed toward the wall—and Wrathion had just barely enough time to comprehend this and then convince his locked fingers and grounded feet to all release Creed. The dragon's head collided with the wall—Wrathion heard the distinct crack of bone, separate from the earth's fissures—then slipped through the air, stunned and growling furiously through his teeth.

The moment Wrathion had let go, he scrambled for a new hold. Clumsily, his fingers raked through the scales on Creed's neck, and though damaged by Bolvar's sun magic, their edges remained razor sharp. The way they tore through Wrathion's gloves and skin was effortless, like a knife through butter, and the pain _stung_. He snarled freely, but his bloody fingers found purchase and his fall stopped, abruptly; gravity dug its grip deep into the sockets of Wrathion's shoulders and _pulled_. A miserable cry ripped apart his clenched teeth, the muscles in his back splitting agonizingly.

Creed had recovered from the reckless move, now gaining height in the chamber again. He arced through the air, inviting the wind to slice with their chilly blades at Wrathion's burning, aching body. He hung on, unable to uncurl his fingers even if he'd wanted to, and struggled to emerge from his blinding pain and return to the precarious situation at hand.

Something heavy snagged the sash and leather armor on his hip. Wrathion lurched back, coiling his legs away from what a shocked glance had told him was Creed's claws. It was only luck that the talons hadn't found his flesh too, else he'd be bleeding his own guts into the high air of the cavern. A shuddered breath escaped him and his stomach churned. Lucky indeed.

Creed struck out his paw again, and this time Wrathion tucked his legs up, evading the attack in its entirety. He grounded his teeth and ripped one of his reddened hands from the bladed scales he'd carelessly impaled himself on, struggling to reach higher on Creed's neck to distance himself from the claws. His feet had nothing to grip, and the strength of his one arm wasn't enough to hoist him higher. Still, he just managed to find the fin on Creed's jaw, and he pulled hard, hauling his weight. The fin tore some, but it would hold, and the split would give Creed yet another wound to cry about.

What wouldn't hold, to the shock of Wrathion's own heartbeat, was his hand. By some impossible, infuriating feat, a sharp, stunning pain pierced the backside of his palm. A bolt, no doubt one of Whiterun's, had found not just Creed's jaw, but Wrathion's hand. His fingers splayed open, seizing up like that, and the way he impulsively tore his arm back dislodged the bolt, sending it flittering away. Once again, gravity had a cruel chance to rake horrible pain through Wrathion's left shoulder as his opposite arm fell away, heavier than it had any right to be, only amplifying the ordeal. Wrathion swore, his voice on the brink of feral. The only thing that had gone right in that moment was the way his left hand balled harder in Creed's scales, the linchpin that had staved off a second excruciating drop to the floor.

The open wound in his right palm pulsed terribly, his fingers flinching like a cursed insect. It was an ugly sight, to say the least, but he had a plan to satisfy his hand's desperate plea to shut in a fist and squeeze the pain away. He rifled about his hip, a winded laugh bursting out of him when he found, to his endless gratitude, his sash had survived Creed's first swipe, and with it, his old, shabby knife. He sealed his fist around the hilt and tore it off, breaking the last of the sash off in the process. He took the sheath in his teeth and pulled it free, then spat the scabbard away as well. He curled his left fingers even more, ignoring the way his skin split as the scales only cut deeper, and pulled up.

He jabbed the knife into Creed's exposed neck and was quickly deafened with a loud scream, but he could only grin at the success. The dagger acted as an easy grip, allowing Wrathion to haul himself high enough that his feet had something to hook into. He ripped his sliced left hand out of the bed of scales it'd rested in, throwing his arm over the back of Creed's neck for a better hold on the dragon.

Who swung his head in the same moment, threatening Wrathion's whole center of balance. Wrathion slipped only inches, then Creed threw his head straight up, hard. The heat of the dragon's neck left Wrathion for a moment as he flew into the air, replaced with the cold swipe of the wind, before Creed adjusted his snout and tried to snatch the Dragonborn in his teeth. Once again, it was just senseless luck that Wrathion hadn't flown as far up as Creed had hoped, allowing him to drop onto the dragon's snout before Creed could open his maw wide enough.

His right hand refused to open at all; only his left could launch out frantically and snatch one of the ridges on Creed's face. But the uncooperative fit of his sealed fist had permitted him to keep hold of his dagger even as the blade had clung to Creed's neck, leaving it clenched in his hand still, and this fact rung at the forefront of Wrathion's mind, silencing any other thought to be heard.

The entire ordeal, from Wrathion's narrow escape of being crushed against the wall to dangling perilously from Creed's nose, had only been a matter of seconds. Wrathion could see, from the corner of his eye, that Creed had only circled the chamber maybe once. His stomach rose to his throat when Creed dipped down involuntarily, yelling as a bolt tore through his wing, and Wrathion feared a crashing descent was imminent.

He'd hoped Bolvar could've hit Creed's face with his magic just once more before the dragon had taken off. Though his scales were damaged or torn away, there remained the fear that it'd still be too thick for Wrathion's sad little dagger to penetrate. But he didn't have the luxury of one more strike of that unnerving sun magic; he had, perhaps, just moments yet to live.

He'd also hoped to keep up his charm and wit, but he didn't have that luxury either. So gracelessly, perhaps even brutally, he hauled himself closer with his left hand and drove the knife in his right into the split skin of Creed's forehead, hoping to whichever Divine could hear him through Their onlooking laughter that the dragon's skull wouldn't snap the dagger.

It did, in fact, break in two. But the blade remained impaled through Creed's head.

Wrathion grinned so hard the muscles in his face strained. " _Hah_!"

The excitement was momentary. With Creed's silence came the retreat of the wind. For a moment, Wrathion enjoyed the release of the cold air, but then it passed and he realized, abruptly, that Creed had ceased flying.

The drop came right after.

And of _course_ the dragon, even in his impending death, crashed snout-first into the floor, turning up the earth and shredding Wrathion's back. The holes in Creed's wings, left by the archers, had at least still forced Creed to sink slowly; it was the only reason the short fall hadn't simply killed Wrathion, as he'd already been rather close to the ground. But it hurt— _oh_ , did it hurt—and even though he hadn't died, he wondered if he wouldn't in the next few moments.

Creed breathed in, once, with great struggle. "Dovah..." he wheezed, quiet with a slashed throat and a dying soul, "kiin..."

Wrathion winced, but his body wouldn't respond to any impulse that surged in his nerves. Creed sighed, and it was his last breath. The chamber turned silent after that, save for a terrible ringing that reverberated indefinitely in Wrathion's ears. He scrunched his eyes closed, willing the awful noise away.

Yet even through it, distantly, he heard that nervous guardswoman's voice. "Prince Anduin!"

Wrathion couldn't see, let alone crane his neck. Even if he _could've_ comprehended what the soldier had yelled, he wouldn't have been able to look upon Anduin Wrynn hobbling toward the pitiful heap of dragon-blooded bodies, his knuckles white on his hammer haft as he hurried across the shattered floor. A hand found his shoulder, too large to be the guardswoman's. He didn't care anyway and tried to jerk free, but he was weak and it was no use.

"Anduin," Bolvar's voice found the prince in his own whirling mind.

Anduin couldn't muster the will to answer. His thoughts raced, and all he could think was the very same thing that'd been in his head all along. From the moment he'd realized where they were, in this great chamber where he'd watched Creed rise reborn from the earth, he'd wanted to grab the stubborn, rude Dragonborn and drag him back out. Blessed with the Voice of dragons or not, Anduin couldn't believe anyone could face two of the great monsters alone.

And now he knew he was right and he wished, desperately, that he hadn't been.

"Prince Anduin," Bolvar spoke again, tugging the boy back.

"No—!" he yelped, almost not of his own will, as he twisted in Bolvar's grip to free himself. Even as two Whiterun soldiers approached Wrathion, he couldn't convince himself to stop. "He's hurt—"

" _You're_ hurt," the highlord insisted, laying another hand on Anduin's opposite shoulder to steady him.

He recalled Wrathion saying the same thing. All over again, he felt the same argument simmering at the tip of Bolvar's tongue; the one of Anduin's duty to Whiterun, which was important, of course, but everyone from his father to the literal Dragonborn seemed to forget or otherwise fail to admit, for a range of reasons, that the last two weeks were bigger than him and his hold. This shouldn't have happened—Wrathion should not have been allowed to face Creed after the damage he'd sustained from Deathwing.

Yet he couldn't ignore Bolvar's silent reasoning either. If not the Dragonborn, then who? No one would see any sense in Wrathion's safety if it came at the cost of his ability to defend Skyrim. What good was he, in the eyes of a military, if he was forbidden from facing dragons? It was too big a question for him to puzzle out now.

"Anduin—" Bolvar started, disrupting the prince's thoughts.

"Whoa," one of the two soldiers piped up.

"It's smoldering!" the other one shouted.

Bolvar looked up, his voice snatched from his mouth. His stunned silence, which Anduin couldn't explain, allowed the prince to pull out of his hand. Anduin turned to continue forward, but he too was dazed into incapacitation.

Just as the soldiers had said, Creed's scales peeled away as embers bloomed along his corpse. They were small, at first, but spread quickly, taking to the dragon's flesh. Anduin blinked hard, trying and failing to recall some explanation. Dragons didn't burst into flames when they died, did they? No one had ever mentioned such a thing, not even Lady Katrana.

The flames surged brilliantly, blinding every stare that looked on. Soldiers ducked their heads back; Bolvar stepped in front of Anduin, shading him as he protected his own eyes with a raised arm. Squints and winces plagued them all, but no one was willing to miss what was happening.

The fires swirled in great streams, red and gold, like currents in the wind, somehow free of the taint dragon's breath was cursed with. It looked purer, in a sense, and the spiraling heat that washed over the chamber wasn't humid and curdled like dragon fire, but rejuvenating. Anduin's eyes were one of the first to adjust to the great light, and he leaned closer, watching the flames rise anew from Creed's body.

Then they burst forth. For a moment, Bolvar feared they would sweep toward him and the prince, but they only arced up and then down with great force and struck Creed's face—no, not Creed.

Wrathion.

The flames bled out of Creed, and eventually, the cavern returned to the silvery glint the moonlight cast over it. The renewed part-darkness was hard to see through after such brilliant light; for a moment, shapes couldn't be made out by anyone's eyes.

Bolvar blinked several times, and when his vision cleared, Anduin was no longer with him, but hurrying toward what remained of Creed; a great skeleton, as silver as the moonbeams. "Anduin—!"

He didn't listen, hurrying to just feet from Wrathion before his leg, searing, had had enough and it buckled. Anduin bit back a cry, sinking to a painful kneel, still clinging to the hammer haft lodged into the broken floor. He panted, shaking and sweating, as he scoured the sight before him for life. He didn't know why Creed's flesh had burned away but Wrathion's had not. None of it mattered again, if Skyrim was without her Dragonborn.

"Wrathion," he gasped, his voice but a puff of white air. "Open your eyes!"

And despite how very unlikely the request should've been, Wrathion did. A moment later he inhaled, deeply, filling his lungs and coloring his face. And Anduin's expression flickered from pain to relief.

"Wrathion!" he said, grinning. "Are you—"

"Ugh," Wrathion cringed, lip curled, now staring at Creed's cracked skull. " _Lovely_."

Anduin went silent. Wrathion sounded well. _Very_ well, for someone who had just been smashed into the earth by the dead weight of a dragon head. Wrathion groaned, his irritation oddly petty, as he tugged his arms up from where they laid at his sides to place his hands on Creed's nose and push. The effort was futile, but certainly not because he was too injured. In fact, there wasn't a scratch on him. Had Anduin imagined it? No, he was certain the Dragonborn had been absolutely bloody just a moment ago.

Wrathion tried twice more to remove the skull on his own, then sighed, aggravated, and let his head drop back to the floor. He craned his neck back, staring upside-down at the prince knelt just feet from him. He looked positively bored of his own predicament.

"A hand, Prince Anduin?" he droned.

Anduin could only gape. Wrathion clucked his tongue and offered a lazy smirk.

"Yes, well—I suppose you're in no condition, anyway," he said. He tilted his head to see past the prince. "You two!"

The pair of soldiers startled, but quickly hurried to Wrathion's aid. Between them, they were able to lift Creed's chin just enough for Wrathion to pull himself out from underneath. He blew a tuft of his escaped hair out of his eyes, then looked himself over. He was pleased to find his lower half unbroken, and not a drop of blood remained on his person, let along any cuts or bruises; though his clothes were still ravaged and stained. Hm. Perhaps Katrana had had a point when she said his attire wasn't fit for Bleak Falls. No matter.

"Dragonborn," a voice spoke.

Wrathion looked up. Ah, the timid guardswoman again. She was hunched forward, her hand outstretched to him. He smiled, amused, and curled his legs up to his chest, bounding to his feet with his own strength. He wavered some, but he looked thrilled, staring upon his own flexing hands. Oh, he felt _incredible_. Absolutely amazing—leaps and bounds better than he could've imagined. Which he had, actually, but that was ancient history.

The guardswoman was stunned by his feat as well, glancing him down then up again. "What..."

"He's Dragonborn, remember," Bolvar's voice appeared, approaching from behind Wrathion. "I should have expected as much."

Wrathion's grin spread. He spun toward Bolvar, his eyes brighter than the highlord had ever seen them. Wrathion's fingers still curled in and out as his one permitted outlet of all the energy burning in his veins. "Then you saw," he said, curiosity laced with the delight.

"That you absorbed that dragon's soul?" Bolvar asked. His face remained set in a slight grimace, clear evidence of his own waning strength—and, perhaps, his patience. "I did. We all did."

"So have I," Wrathion said. "In a dream, though. Was it even more extravagant in the flesh?"

Bolvar didn't answer him. Wrathion only grinned harder.

He turned on his heels, taking only a moment to relocate the great, ancient wall jutting out of the battle-broken chamber. He slipped past the guardswoman and made his way up the steps, three at a time, and took momentary, idle notice of a skeleton on the floor before he laid his hands, spared of his ruined gloves, on the cold stone of the wall. He felt the crevices of the dragon words beneath his skin, as well as the earthen hum of the magic entombed within. It was as if the wall sung in its language to him, softly so that only he might soak up what its lullaby had to teach him.

Power pulsed first in his fingers, then his wrists, elbows, chest. It swirled, heavy and winding, like the great force of a gale—no, of retribution itself. His lips spread in a grin that wrinkled his eyes and nose and he let out one slow, steadying breath.

"'Here lies the guardian keeper of the dragonstone'," he read aloud, as quiet as the wall's gentle song, "'and a **force** of unending rage and darkness'."

His chest swelled. His Voice was not just renewed, but strengthened. He'd never felt so powerful. He could hardly wait to taste his next dragon soul, yet did not take his first for granted. _His first,_ his mind resounded, and a small laugh found its way between the words of power whispering through him. A dragon was dead, and _he_ had delivered the fatal blow. Any previous frustration with how invaluable the nords' help had been was long gone. He didn't need to remind himself he was Dragonborn now; he practically couldn't stop thinking about it, _enthusing_ about it. Dragonborn.  Dovahkiin! That was what the dragons had called him. He would warp the word in their minds just as he would in the nords'; soon, _very_ soon, no dragon nor mortal would hear the name 'Dragonborn' and roll their eyes. They would tremble, they would rejoice and they would _believe_.

For he had come.

He turned from the wall; the hum left his mind, but his chest still whirled with that word of power welled in his throat. He already knew what to expect and how to harness the word's power, how to bend the Shout to his will. Creed's soul thrummed in his blood, and with it, so much knowledge and power Wrathion could only dream of tapping dry. But this word was his first taste, and his dreams had betrayed just how tantalizing it was.

His hands balled into fists. His eyes saw a table of books and vials across the platform. Excitement erupted through him; his veins nearly ached with the force of his rushing blood. With a breath, his Voice solidified in his chest, and he Shouted.

" **Fus**!"

The table launched off the edge of the platform, glass and parchment exploding into the air. It showered and flickered down. The table struck the floor and shattered. Wrathion couldn't contain his delight, cackling at the display. What immaculate power! And to think he'd witnessed firsthand, in his brief encounter with Deathwing the World Breaker, just what it could do with its sister-words!

Fus Ro Dah, he recalled. The other words were simply that: words. Without the magic-imbued stone and the educated soul of a dead dragon, they would remain just words. But he would find them, as he'd found many others—Zun, Gol, Krii, and dozens more—and now it would be made effortless. Learning the words until now had been a slow process, hours sat before great stone walls, reciting the same single word over, and over, and over again. Twisting and warping it on his tongue, shifting his shoulders and neck, pressuring his chest and jaw and heart, until finally, just a spark, a _wisp_ of the Shout might tickle his throat. It reminded him of what the Kirin Tor must've struggled with—though, their learning of dragon words took tens of years, not hours. It was annoying enough to ring similar, he'd argue.

But _Creed's_ soul, brimming with knowledge Wrathion desperately wished he could tear into this second, had made ' Fus' special. It was instant, painless. It was how the Dragonborn _should_ learn Shouts. No trial and error, no wasting away at the mercy of luck; just immediate gratification, as if he'd simply remembered the word from long ago, not stared at it until its creases became blurred and ugly and burned into Wrathion's eyes.

He truly couldn't contain his delight.

Even so, he drew up his shoulders, aligning them, and he forced his grin, which even now still ached from the sore muscles he'd pulled there earlier, into a small line. It only worked for a moment, before a restrained smirk peeled through, but he thought it close enough and started in a brisk walk for the edge of the platform. He was still teeming with the burning energy of Creed's soul, tight underneath his skin just due to how _much_ of it there was. He truly _felt_ like an unrelenting force.

He leapt from the platform. The wind cut through his already mangled clothes, and as he neared the floor he sucked in a mouthful of frigid air. " **Fus**!" he Shouted, already grinning again. The power burst forth and slammed against the earth below him, cracking it. The Shout echoed, faintly, back from the impact and remained strong enough to curb Wrathion's descent. He landed, harmlessly, in the center of the shallow crater his Voice had made.

And he _still_ felt full of energy. This was so _exhilarating_!

He looked up upon the gathered Whiterun regiment. Bolvar was turned away from the Word Wall and thus Wrathion now. Two soldiers, including the timid one, were with Prince Anduin, who was seated and now looked no better than when Wrathion had seen him in the fungi-lined tunnel before. He sat wrapped in one of the soldier's cloaks as the woman, knelt in front of him, seemed to hold a quiet, gentle conversation that he was barely a participant in. Wrathion spared a thoughtful pout, tilting his head a hair. Bolvar's healing must have worn off. He was sure the prince's adrenaline rush from grappling with dragons, also, had played a part in staving off his weakness. Now, however, he was as fragile as when he'd collapsed in Wrathion's arms.

But he was alive. Wrathion smirked again. He had to admit, it was rather nice knowing no nord kings would be biting his head off over family matters. _Royal_ family matters, he supposed, but still.

Wrathion strode back to the regiment, his smirk and leveled shoulders fixed. As he closed in, he could hear Bolvar's voice sharpen in quality.

"—be returning to Riverwood shortly," he said. "The prophet will be able to take a proper look at Prince Anduin, as well as the remaining troops."

Wrathion wondered, idly, who he was talking to, but the question was answered the moment Bolvar received his reply.

"How many are left?" asked Katrana's voice, though Wrathion wondered if it truly was her, recalling how her device worked.

Bolvar's shoulders slipped, slightly, as he hesitated to answer. "Five," he finally said, grimly. "Two are injured."

So they truly had struggled with the draugr. Wrathion shifted his jaw. There was an odd tension in his chest, and it was putting an annoying damper on his mood. _They volunteered,_ he recalled himself chiding to the prince earlier. He pushed it from his mind.

"Return to Whiterun as soon as you can," came Katrana's voice again, but this time Wrathion was sure it was King Wrynn. The voice was authoritative and lacked that strange secrecy to Katrana's.

"It won't be later than tomorrow," Bolvar assured them, though his voice remained low and darkened. "My king, are you sure you don't wish t—"

"It can wait," Varian said, supposedly. Though he sounded conflicted; surely what prompted Bolvar to ask in the first place. "Just focus on the rest of your mission, Bolvar."

Bolvar bowed his head, though Varian couldn't see it. "Of course, my king. Ah—Lady Katrana?"

"Highlord," came Katrana definitely. Her haughty tone was becoming unmistakable to Wrathion.

"We found something peculiar," Bolvar said. He glanced at Anduin and the two soldiers looking after him. "I don't know what to make of it."

"Picture it for me," Katrana said.

"Pardon?"

"With your mind, Highlord. I can get an idea if you focus."

Bolvar seemed to hesitate, then lowered his head again. Wrathion watched, privately annoyed with the highlord's silence. 'Found something'? He racked his own mind, hoping to remember something, but the niggling concern that it had occurred after Wrathion and the prince fled distracted him until he gave up.

"Ah—" Katrana gasped, almost soundless, but it perked Wrathion's interest regardless.

"What is it?" Bolvar asked.

She was silent for longer than Wrathion would have expected her to be. When she spoke, she maintained her usual calm, but the trace of tension in her voice, which Wrathion couldn't name as enthused or anxious, stood out faintly to him.

"Do you still have it?"

"Yes," Bolvar said, confused himself.

"Good," she said. "Bring it to me. I think I can do something with it."

Bolvar nodded, forgetting again that she couldn't see. "Will do."

Wrathion narrowed his eyes, successfully frustrated. Katrana must have closed the connection to the soul gem in the device, because Bolvar clasped it shut and pocketed it. He turned, looking as though he were about to speak to his two remaining soldiers—where was the third, Wrathion wondered?—before he spotted the Dragonborn instead.

"Find what you were looking for?" the highlord asked with a trace of amusement.

Wrathion didn't let it bother him. He smirked proudly. "The barrow has proven more valuable to me than I ever could've anticipated—and I was _quite_ confident."

"That's good, I suppose," Bolvar smiled faintly. "Oh."

Wrathion's face faltered with curiosity as the highlord rifled through his armor. His hand came up with an item that he tossed to Wrathion before he could get a look at it. The Dragonborn fumbled some, but caught it even so. A scowl punctured his face further when he found it was that ugly Whiterun dagger, now scratched and smeared with blood.

"Found that among the dragon's bones," Bolvar said, the amusement now rampant in his voice. Wrathion realized he knew he disliked the weapon. "You're welcome."

Wrathion grumbled from the pit of his throat. Nevertheless, he secured the knife to his person, shoving it with some irritated care into his right boot when he remembered that his sash had been stripped from him during the fight with Creed. He only just caught Bolvar glance at his soldiers again, and followed his momentary stare, but unlike the highlord, Wrathion fixated, though not on purpose. Anduin's head was bowed, and he was shuddering, with the sporadic flinch, as the guardswoman rubbed his back and soothed him. Wrathion's ears strained without any decision to listen, and he caught the distant, muffled weeping of the prince. His eyebrows furrowed, transfixed on the abrupt change. Or had it been abrupt at all? He'd been so wrapped up in the Word Wall, and in Bolvar's conversation, that time was a bit indistinguishable to him at the moment. But he wondered—

"That isn't Deathwing, is it?" Bolvar asked, gesturing at the skeleton in question. His voice lacked the humor now; it was reminiscent of that darker tone from before, but even so it snapped Wrathion out of his daze.

Wrathion eyed what remained of the corpse. Being reminded of Deathwing's escape didn't do any favors for his garbled mood. "No," he answered simply, and somewhat distantly, still coming to from his odd stupor regarding the prince.

Bolvar sighed, but Wrathion suspected he'd anticipated the answer. "Then they really are coming back."

As if that wasn't what he had been saying for years. His teeth clenched, and he grumbled like earlier.

He heard steel-plated boots approaching and looked up. The soldier that Wrathion had been wondering about was returning, and behind him were the last two that Bolvar had said were injured. The highlord must have sent for them now that the fight was over; suddenly, the soldier's absence made sense to Wrathion.

Bolvar dismissed the grim topic, turning to his returning soldiers. "Good, you're back. It's time to get out of here."

"Yes, sir," one of the soldiers said. The relief in his voice was not lost on any of them.

"Is the dragon...?" the other started, but she was hesitant to follow through.

Bolvar frowned. He glanced at Wrathion, who only returned the gesture. "I fear this is only the beginning," the highlord sighed. His regiment looked no happier about it.

Wrathion smirked, the gesture a bit rigid, and it certainly didn't reach his eyes. Deathwing's escape was meaningless. Wrathion would just hunt him down and finish the job. This was only a setback. And now he was nearly free of King Wrynn's troublesome deal, so Wrathion would have his agents and his rules at his disposal. _Yes,_ he thought, his confidence rising by the moment. _Merely a setback._

Er. As soon as he _found_ his agents, that was. They could've been anywhere by now, though he knew their search for him would not lead them _too_ astray.

He frowned, but it was less sore than before. An _annoying_ setback. He turned his head away from the gathered soldiers, and once again, without any thought to do so, he found his senses acting on their own; his eyes found Prince Anduin. He looked to have calmed some, but he remained doubled over, and the guardswoman's hand was still on his back, though unmoving now. Wrathion couldn't quite recall all the whirling confusion he'd felt before, and he felt irritated with himself not because he couldn't remember, but because he'd been confused at all. Obviously, Anduin Wrynn was going to be affected. The last two weeks he'd barely survived would sink their claws into him, and now, shrouded in safety, he'd have nothing to do but think about what he'd been through. Of course. How had Wrathion ever wondered what could possibly be wrong with him?

Yet he didn't quite feel better—which he felt he should, having solved the mystery. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. He was tired, he assured himself. Tired and sick of this ordeal. The ugly weight in his stomach would dissipate soon enough, especially with ample distractions.

And what better than Deathwing the World Breaker?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [dragon translations](http://textuploader.com/xmqr)
> 
> today's headcanon is: dragonborns should totally get restored to full health when they absorb dragon souls because, i mean, when dragons get resurrected THEY get full health, so like, it's only fair. also, without this headcanon, it'd be super hard to do really cool crap like smash wrathion into the ground with a dragon skull, ok. like, it'd just be hard to write dragon fights in general, since dragons are big and breathe fire and basically looking at one is slightly fatal, so, dragonborns need some extra perks here. also it's cool.
> 
> do you ever write something and just laugh about it forever? because that's how i felt giving wrathion his shitty whiterun knife back. thanks bolvar i think we're all glad i didn't kill you ~~this time~~ cough wheeze what.
> 
> final note: i can't write especially shippy things without reminding everyone that i find it super embarrassing because i'm five.


	11. Ahzid-Hes Hahnuue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **content warnings:** burns/cuts, death, hallucinations/delusions(?), mentions of dismemberment

Chapter 11: Ahzid-Hes Hahnuue  
"Bittersweet Dreams"

———Hearth Fire 1st———

The ascent back out of Bleak Falls hadn't taken as much time, but every minute that passed could've been another mile between Wrathion and Deathwing. It didn't help that the Whiterun regiment's injuries slowed them down, though at least they didn't need to worry about their half-impaired prince. Anduin, either asleep or unconscious, Wrathion wasn't sure and hadn't asked, was now the responsibility of two of the healthy soldiers, tasked with turns of carrying him. Bolvar's limited Restoration magic had again eased the prince's pain, but only by so much. He was still threatened by his ravaged right leg, not to mention starved, sleep-deprived and, as Wrathion had realized before, traumatized.

Really, it should have been a miracle he was alive at all, but Wrathion hadn't ever had much room to be surprised. Not since Velen and Katrana insisted he lived, at least. In fact, it was likely thanks to Velen that Anduin Wrynn _was_ alive. His teachings, certainly, fended off a worse fate.

Actually, Wrathion was mildly curious how the prince _had_ ended up _this_ bad. Velen was beyond renowned, and if Wrathion recalled, his student was no one to sneeze at either. The Dragonborn was no expert in the workings of Restoration magic, but, surely one charred leg and a laceration in his head couldn't have been too much for the prince. Maybe the deterioration of his strength nullified even training as fine as his. In the end, it didn't really matter. His condition was what it was, and it wasn't good.

Nor was the condition of the regiment as a whole, actually. Wrathion didn't want to admit it, but the draugr, while nothing compared to Creed and Deathwing, had been a challenge of an opponent. Leaving Whiterun to take care of it had perhaps been hasty. Seven of Bolvar's soldiers were dead, most to the draugr encounters, and two more were badly injured. At least they'd taken care of it. They had past through the fungi tunnel on their way out, some hours ago. The draugr had been slashed apart, its broken corpse left not far from a disheartening hall of Whiterun soldiers, their eyes all laid closed. It was surely the only condolences the remaining troops could spare on such short notice. Wrathion wondered if something more would be done for them once their preoccupation with their prince was dealt with. Nords were very dedicated to their traditions, after all, and death was no exception.

He scrunched his nose for a moment, scoffing quietly to himself. How he had gotten so wrapped up in Whiterun's affairs, from their prince to their dead, he hadn't a clue, but he was getting tired of it.

The mouth of Bleak Falls Barrow howled as always with the outside wind. Wrathion could hear it now, and smiled at the welcome distraction. As they emerged from the last of the winding tunnels into the front chamber, Wrathion could see the faintest streams of light beginning to pour in through the high ceiling. It wasn't quite dawn, but it would be in the next hour or so. The shade cast over the peak made it especially cold—Wrathion had almost forgotten, after so long, that the barrow had been warmer without the outside wind. He shuddered, the heat sapped from him, and suddenly he wished to return to it.

"We'll reach Riverwood by late morning," Bolvar said; even he seemed jarred by the chill. "Then we'll find Prophet Velen and take a well-earned rest."

The regiment collectively sighed some tension or fatigue away, comforted by the highlord's words. Wrathion wondered, however, if he wasn't becoming bored with the troops. He'd helped them retrieve their prince and slain a dragon, whose soul still coursed in his blood, though the exhilaration was finally waning. He needn't return the boy personally as well, did he? And any opportunity to cut away wasted time sounded very tempting at the moment.

But his body reminded him why it wasn't, actually, a better plan. Though absorbing Creed's soul had essentially revitalized him, most of the effects only lasted a few minutes. The dizzying rate of his healing and the surplus of energy had both faded before he even left the Word Wall's chamber, and the event had had no lasting effect on his exhaustion or hunger, both of which were now amplified after so much traveling and so little sleep or food.

So he didn't say anything, deciding to at least accompany the regiment back to Riverwood, where he could perhaps coerce a meal and a room out of them and not have to pay for either himself. It was the least they could do, wasn't it? He thought so.

"Halt!" one of the soldier's shouted, snapping Wrathion from his thoughts.

He glanced first at the grunt, stupidly, then whirled to where his crossbow was aimed. A redguard woman, having materialized from nowhere, as far as anyone could tell, raised her hands so that her own crossbow was well out of quick reach.

"Take it easy," she said, her tone and the dull expression on her face revealing a stark lack of concern. "I don't bite."

Wrathion grinned so hard he bruised the muscles in his face all over again. Right! How naive of him to have underestimated their skill—of course his agents had tracked him down! He forwent any leave from Whiterun, as usual, and hurried to meet the woman face to face.

The soldier with the armed crossbow startled. "Dragonborn—"

"She's with me," Wrathion said, raising a hand to silence the soldier.

The regiment resigned to some whispering. He caught the word 'Blacktalon' before drowning them out completely.

"You're late," he said to Right, crossing his arms snugly. It wasn't just an arrogant gesture; the cold was really beginning to seep into him.

Right gave him a once-over. "You look terrible."

Wrathion shrugged. "My clothes are a bit ruined, but I've never felt better. You missed some truly incredib..."

He stopped, realizing something was amiss. He glanced around, his smug expression swept off his face, but he saw no sign of the orc he was looking for. "Where's Left? Did something—"

"She's fine," Right said. She spared a look at the regiment, uncertain if she should discuss the details right here.

Wrathion pinched his eyebrows slightly, but let it go for the moment. Right didn't _seem_ under duress, though she and Left were famously stoic. It was probably fine.

He cleared his throat, straightening his back out. "Yes, very well," he said, then grinned with some excitement. "I'm sure you're aware I've been _quite_ busy."

"Mm," was all Right said. She glanced up again, and this time, noted the little gold-garbed prince resting on the back of one of the soldiers. "So he's alive."

Wrathion glanced back, somehow surprised she'd learned so much about the nature of his disappearance, but he knew he shouldn't have been. He resisted any unsolicited attempt from his mind to turn grim at the thought of the prince again. "Yes," he chimed, proud that his voice hadn't strained, "thanks to yours truly."

"Of course," Right teased dryly.

"Now that you're here," Wrathion went on, shifting his feet, prepared to get going soon, "we'll be heading with Highlord Bolvar, here, back to Riverwood."

Right raised her eyebrows just a hair, a subtle 'why' in the expression, but she didn't ask and Wrathion didn't answer. He moved past her, and heard Bolvar readying his regiment again. Right turned to follow the Dragonborn, though spared a glance at the peak of Bleak Falls. The dust she'd seen plume up from Deathwing's escape had long since disappeared, and from here, she couldn't see any sign of the damage at all. She noticed Whiterun a fair few paces behind them, where her voice would not carry well, and decided to address Wrathion's earlier question.

"The dragon escaped," she said, looking forward.

Wrathion stirred, visibly irritated as he walked. "Deathwing did, yes," he admitted under a faint grumble. "The other did not."

Right crooked her eyebrow rather severely, given her usual, subtler expressions. "'The other'?"

Wrathion grinned, but the frustration remained. "Deathwing had a friend. He's dead now, and I've taken his soul as the first of many trophies."

She blinked, then worked on subduing her face again. "So you really are Dragonborn."

"Of _course_ I'm really Dragonborn," he snapped, but he knew she hadn't doubted him in the first place and was just being difficult.

"Confirmation never hurts." Right said, then sighed. She was just as annoyed with Deathwing's escape as Wrathion. "While you were messing around with Whiterun and small fry, we saw it."

Wrathion hesitated, unraveling her meaning. He glanced over his shoulder at her, perhaps too hopeful for his own good. "Deathwing?"

Right nodded. "Left's tracking it."

His eyes flared with an ill-contained excitement. Competent as always, these two! It was why they were his favorites.

"Where?" he asked, far too eager.

"West," Right said. "You'll know more when Left contacts us."

He rubbed his hands together, focused ahead again. The conflict of whether or not to stay and rest in Riverwood was settled; Left was a _superb_ hunter. That World Breaker could shake all the mountains he liked, he'd never shake that orc. _This_ was why they were his favorites.

"Do you know why?" Right asked.

"Why what?" Wrathion said absently, distracted with his own delight.

"Why there were two."

That reclaimed his attention. He furrowed his eyebrows, glaring out into the surrounding view. No, he didn't. He had no idea how Creed had appeared—or Deathwing, for that matter, but no one could account for that as far as he knew. There was, however, one person who might be able to explain Creed's arrival. Wrathion glanced over his shoulder, suddenly frustrated with the Whiterun prince's condition. If he was unconscious, there'd be no hope of asking him now. If he was only asleep, it'd be just as unlikely; Whiterun wouldn't take kindly to Wrathion prodding the prince in his state.

And there was that lingering, sour weight in the Dragonborn's stomach, which hadn't gone away no matter how thoroughly he explained to himself that Anduin's condition was obvious and made perfect sense.

More annoying setbacks he didn't like, but no matter. He'd find time to question Prince Anduin in Riverwood. Yes, he'd surely be awake by then, with the prophet's healing—and he had been eager to explain the presence of two dragons before, so why not now? Wrathion would be cautious, of course, and the prince would probably appreciate an outlet for the silent remembrance of his ordeal anyway.

"I'll find out," he answered Right, confident in his conclusion. "In Riverwood."

Right had seen him working through his own head during the bout of silence, and as a result, was skeptical of his answer. He had a tendency to pretend problems away. It usually just made more of them. But then, she supposed that's what she and Left were there for. She scoffed, but she was vaguely amused.

"Lead the way."

———Hearth Fire 1st———

Katrana was pleased. _Very_ pleased.

The high chamber of Dragonsreach she sat in, quietly eating breakfast, was heavy with anxiety. There was hardly any sound, save for the clinking of her dishes and, perhaps, the breathing of the blue-and-gold guards decorating the edges of the room; dotted on the walls, by the great doors leading into Whiterun and, of course, flanking the throne well to Katrana's left.

She smirked at the thought, eyeing the great seat in question. Varian Wrynn sat upon it, and with no one unusual around, he had succumb to a more natural stance. His legs parted, one stretched almost into a lock at the knee, and his body leaning heavily to his left, chin perched in a hand as he stared out into the chamber, unfocused, deep in thought. He looked positively restless, the nails of his unoccupied hand drumming idly on the armrest. Word of Prince Anduin's rescue had reached them earlier, at an hour where stars were still winking in a paling sky. No longer did Varian brace all that fatherly fret deep, deep down in his core, for there was little of it now. And he was exhausted with bottling it up anyway; that was evident by the way he sat now, his anxiety on full display.

Such nerves were what seemed to make the air in the room so weighted. The guards mirrored their king, all sweat and stiff muscles, like petrified statues. The dual-meaning made Katrana smile even more. They were all wrecked with unease, but _she_ was, as she'd been before, pleased.

She was pleased because Highlord Bolvar had shown her something fascinating from the depths of his mind. Katrana was so thrilled with her little device now; it had been pivotal to her mood. She hadn't allowed herself to forget what Bolvar had pictured for her. A stone slab, carved on one side with indiscernible etchings that Bolvar couldn't understand and were thus hard to read when Katrana imagined them. The other side, though he hadn't realized it when he showed her, bore markings he _did_ recognize. Deep in his subconscious, he had realized what the inscriptions represented, and this unknown revelation applied itself to the mental artifact he had conjured behind his eyes for Katrana.

She was grinning now, at the memory of it. The weathered design of a dragon's head, the ancient words she couldn't wait to read, and the crucial drawing that had made Katrana realize just how desperately she needed to see the tablet for herself.

Bolvar's memory had whispered one, out-of-mind word to her: 'dragonstone'.

Katrana had read about it up until breakfast, the second she'd closed contact with the highlord. The information was difficult to find, for there was little record of any dragonstone, but she had scrounged it up regardless and she was _so very_ pleased.

The dragonstone was the linchpin to her recent work; the work she'd discussed with Varian yesterday. Though she hadn't yet managed to fully translated the illegible scrawls Bolvar had presented, she had unraveled enough to know that, once the dragonstone was in her possession, her research would turn from painstaking to almost effortless. For this reason, she was less worried about picking the shadows of Bolvar's faulted memory away from the inscription, because soon it would be in her hands, and she could read the words easily herself, free of the highlord's limitations.

And even without the dragonstone, Katrana was already more sure of her theory than ever. Bolvar reported not one dragon, but _two_ in Bleak Falls. Where the second had come from, the court wizard was unsure, but the fact that a branch of Restoration magic had been so effective against the beast solidified her idea quite well. Sun spells were notoriously powerful against all things necromantic—such is why some incantations were named things like Vampire's Bane. If Bolvar's limited magic had torn apart draugr and dragons as effortlessly as his memory of the events claimed, then it suggested something _unholy_ about both. Draugr being of the undead was not a farfetched idea; more than ever, Katrana was certain they and the new dragons had this in common.

She took a sip from her goblet, the smirk on her face almost permanent now. The tension in Dragonsreach had not lessened, but her delight was the sweetness in a bitter room, the beacon in these dark halls, its light guarding her from the anxiety that claimed all others. Bolvar would return by the next night, dragonstone in tow.

Then Katrana could really get started.

———Hearth Fire 1st———

The darkness was cold around Anduin. Cold, and very heavy. He felt nearly crushed underneath it, his bones splintering, muscles rupturing. Taut, aching bruises stretched across every inch of his body. In the darkness, he heard something oddly familiar thrumming in his ears, faintly. He recognized it, but he couldn't remember from where, and when he tried, the chill in his blood worsened, discouraging him.

He fell; he hadn't realized he was suspended in the air before. A stone floor, merciless, smashed against his flesh and bones, breaking a pained cry out of him. Even when the rippling of his body stilled, the thrumming sound did not, and it made him shiver. His eyes, having sealed shut after the fall, rolled back open. He could make out a great wall in front of him, inscribed with a language he didn't understand. The wall shook as he did; it was here the drumming was coming from. Anduin winced. It, like the sound itself, was familiar, and he wasn't sure why.

Something distant rumbled. The floor shook, independent from the magical pulse that traveled through the wall and Anduin. He recognized this voice too, the one that had growled, and though he once again didn't know from where, fear clutched his heart like claws, threatening to puncture the organ. His body ached, chilled, and he struggled to move it, but to no avail. It was completely unresponsive to him, like utter dead weight. The thought put a dizzying terror in his mind.

Then there was a bright light out the corner of his eye. Anduin couldn't move his head and thus couldn't see it, but it was abrupt and loud and it scared him. His eyes, which seemed to be the only thing that would reply to him, squeezed shut to escape the light. The next thing he felt was burning, _terrible_ burning. Flames licked up his body, lifting his flesh by their hot, prickled tongues. It was revolting and excruciating, how he felt the fire strip his skin like dead fur from a lion's coat. He wanted to yell, but all he could muster was a whimper. Even then, he wasn't sure if it only reached his mind.

The pain stopped. _Everything_ stopped. He felt nothing at all—no hurting bruises, no burning fire, no cold or weight. He couldn't even feel the beat of his heart, the rush of his blood, the rise and fall of his lungs, the tips of his fingers, the tension in his shut eyes. Nothing.

He realized, suddenly, that he was looking upon the world again, however. His eyes had opened—or maybe the fire devoured the lids, he wasn't sure. The floor was beneath him, sinking farther and farther away, as was the foreign wall. He realized he was rising and tried to look, but he wished he'd hadn't, for he was floating into the open maw of a dragon. His thoughts whirled, begging him to move, but no muscles tightened, no nerves flared. He realized he couldn't even feel the sparks of his brain having the thoughts, something he never knew he could usually feel in the first place.

He looked down again, searching for some kind of escape, but stopped. Below him, now small as he rose higher into the air, was the unnerving, sickening sight of a skeleton, deprived of all its flesh until it was a bright, pristine white. He had never seen his own bones, but he knew, somehow, this was all that remained of his body. His mind urged him to let it pretend it was only an illusion or even a reflection, but the sensation of seeing it was too disgusting and wrong. It was his body, his _bones_ , and he was not within them.

Teeth appeared in the corners of his eyes. He looked up, afraid, but the sharp tips could not truly touch him, just as nothing else could. He wasn't tangible. He was energy; a cloud, a spirit, ensnared in the dragon's mouth. His mind reeled, his thoughts either loud or distant without a head to contain them. They could roam, freely, like currents of wind. No—more like the leaves they carried. They were not free, they were at the mercy of the dancing air.

The vague shapes he could make out in the darkness blurred, signaling motion. The dragon turned, he supposed, and faced a great stretch of brown earth. Anduin stared, struggling to comprehend the sight, though it was perhaps the simplest thing he'd seen so far. The dragon inhaled, but Anduin's soul was not sucked in with the air. The dragon spoke; what it said was familiar, but he didn't know why.

" **Slen** , **Tiid Vo**!"

For a moment, Anduin saw the plain of earth crack deeply. Then the light, which Anduin realized he was encased in, flared brilliantly, drowning his sight out until only a flat whiteness stretched out in front of him. Minutes passed—maybe hours—but he realized the whiteness had turned black again and startled, once more alarmed by the change he hadn't noticed. And he felt heavy again, but warm. Very warm, as if his body had undergone great stress.

Wait—his body! He could feel the blood and muscles and sinew, all wrapped together in a layer of skin that felt... different, he realized. Layered, almost. Like cobblestones. His eyes opened, but he didn't recall telling them to. Then some absurd sensation pulsed through his nerves. His shoulder blades twisted, bizarrely, similarly to how his shoulders would when he moved his arms. Speaking of, he felt something protruding from his back, like... appendages. Limbs? No, something else. He struggled to find the word, until there were great, fleeting whirls of wind and a single sound of beating, flapping leather near, above his back and around his flanks.

Wings.

His body still didn't respond to him, instead acting on its own. His mouth sighed, and great clouds of smoke billowed out, but he did not choke on them. The dragon that had captured him in its mouth stared upon him with eyes of hellfire. Anduin realized he was much closer to the beast's height than he should've been. The dragon laughed, once, but while proud, there was also scorn in his voice. Anduin felt both loathed and defeated, and he didn't know why.

"Neltharion," his own voice spoke out, distorted by the deep rumbling of a long, winding neck.

Anduin didn't know what he'd said or what the word meant, but the dragon's eyes glimmered in response and he grinned, cruelly, as he stared directly into eyes Anduin knew, suddenly, were not his own.

"Kulaan."

Anduin woke with an explosive start, like lightning through his veins, though his body had hardly risen from where he laid. He took three short, shallow breaths, then his hands flew up to his face, fingertips pressing into his skin, which _was_ skin. No smoke or scales, no elongated snout or neck. His shoulder blades were light, free of the weight of wings, and every muscle replied to his mind readily, obediently—though in jerky, tense motions. There was no cold that clung to him; the room, though dim, was a perfectly comfortable temperature, perhaps leaning toward warm, but that seemed to be the fault of the blanket draped over him and his own burning blood.

His eyes rolled closed and his hands fell somewhat limp against his face, his body shuddering pitifully. There was tightness in his right leg, but no pain; the adrenaline rush from his dream had completely muted it for the moment.

 _Nightmare,_ he corrected himself. His lungs ached as he continued to breathe, rapidly, unable to slow it down even if he had thought to.

He didn't know how long it'd been until he opened his eyes again. It felt like minutes, but the fear of slipping back into that horrible darkness made him wonder if it'd only been moments. He squinted at the ceiling, wooden and slightly worn, not at all like the kept joists and rafters in his own room. The thought made him wince again. Where was he?

"Anduin."

He startled, and his very first thought was that he must still be dreaming, because he knew that voice. It was Master Velen's, but Velen was dead—he'd seen what Deathwing had done to him—so how could he hear it? Fright claimed him, but even so, he tilted his head to the left.

And Velen was there, seated at his bedside. He offered a kind smile that Anduin couldn't register, already urging his muscles to sit him up so he could flee. Velen saw, though, and rested a hand on Anduin's chest, only spiking his distress for a moment before a gentle light bloomed in the prophet's hand, soothing the fear.

"Do not be afraid," Velen said. "You're safe, Anduin."

"No," he blurted out, his voice hoarse. "No, you're—"

Alive. Velen was alive. Angela, that kind guardswoman that had knelt to comfort him after the dragons were dealt with, had told Anduin he'd be taken to Riverwood so the prophet could heal him. He remembered how relieved he was, now; how everything that had happened came crashing down on his head and he'd finally succumb to the weight of it. Just thinking about it made his throat close, painfully, as he struggled not to shed tears. He relaxed, some—or at least his joints all stopped locking, as his eyes shut and he focused on not letting any sobs get free. Velen's fingers rested firm on Anduin's chest, just slightly, in a soothing gesture that made him shudder, but did serve to relax his body.

"I..." His voice was even weaker without the adrenaline to clarify it. His leg hurt now, too; a burning pain, faint at first, but getting worse as Velen's magic eased his racing mind.

"Hush," Velen said, soft and comforting. "You needn't say anything."

Yet the impulse to apologize—for what, he didn't know—ached away in him still. "I-I thought..." He squeezed his eyes, which were still closed, and struggled to overcome the heaviness of his voice.

"I'm safe too," Velen reassured him. Anduin's chest began to unclench at this. "And I'm grateful you are as well. Now please, go back to sleep. You will heal faster with rest."

He didn't want to, but his aching, exhausted body didn't give him much choice in the matter. Neither did Velen's magic, he suspected. His scrunched eyes relaxed some, and soon the ragged sound of his shallow breathing disappeared and he drifted back to sleep. Velen watched over him, carefully, making sure not to cease his gentle spell until the prince wouldn't rise out of the stupor in its absence. It was only when Anduin's chest rose and fell slowly, deeply, that Velen pulled his hand away and looked, a while longer. Anduin didn't wake again, and the prophet was satisfied that he would sleep.

He heard cautious footfalls, plate on wood, approach the closed door. Velen glanced that way and waited until the steps paused, then spoke before a knock came. "You may enter."

A slight chink of armor sounded. Velen smiled, imagining the startled face on the other side. The door opened with just as much care, and after the bright light of the tavern firepit, sculpted by the edge of the wall and door, spilled into the room, Bolvar's face appeared. Velen's smile grew, and he turned to Anduin again. Bolvar looked as well, making sure the prince was asleep before he stepped inside, letting the door roll closed behind him. It did not latch, but he was too focused on his own noises to realize.

"How is he?" the highlord asked, his voice barely more than a breath.

Velen frowned, recalling the prince's wounds. "He would not have lasted much longer in the barrow," he said, both sadness and relief in his words.

Bolvar nodded, understanding the tone. "I don't suspect he'll be well enough for lunch, then."

"No, I think not," Velen sighed. "Dinner, perhaps. He must eat."

Again, Bolvar nodded his head. He stepped closer, his eyes fixed upon Anduin. They drifted over the blanket, down to where Velen had the sheet pulled aside so that he could monitor Anduin's right leg. The prophet had managed to peel away the cloth and leather that clung to the wound, revealing just how bad the damage was. Salves and gauze tended it now, staving off infection and heat and bleeding, but neither the prophet nor Bolvar were fooling themselves.

Even so, Bolvar asked, if only because he hoped he was wrong. "And his leg?"

"There's no saving it," Velen said, his voice low and grim. "It must be amputated. I think, with a bit more healing, I can fend the damage back to below the knee."

Bolvar clenched his teeth. He could only offer a quiet 'mm' in response, his gaze falling to the floor. There was a long silence before he found another question through his troubled thoughts. "Can you do it here?"

Velen's eyebrows flinched, only slightly, and just for a moment, but it was enough that he didn't have to answer, though he did anyway. "I haven't the equipment. He will not get any worse given one more day, so long as I'm here to tend to him. I think it best to give me a little more time to stabilize his condition."

"Is tomorrow morning enough?" Bolvar asked.

"Yes, it should be," Velen nodded.

"I'll send word to Lady Prestor," Bolvar said. "King Varian will want to know."

"He will," Velen agreed. "But—stay a while, won't you?"

Bolvar pinched his eyebrows, only just. "Prophet?"

Velen looked at him, smiled, and gestured his head gently toward Anduin. "Look, Highlord."

Bolvar did. Anduin appeared to be in a deep sleep, which the highlord was grateful for. There was a faint wetness all around the prince's face, but he didn't appear to be sweating; at least, not anymore. His expression was more relaxed than Bolvar had seen it previously as well. He almost looked oblivious to his own weakness. Again, Bolvar was glad.

Velen saw the slight light in the highlord's eyes. His smile grew. "He senses you," he said.

Bolvar, alarmed, looked at the prophet. When Velen offered no further explanation, he looked to Anduin again. "'Senses me'?" he finally repeated, doubting.

"He's been having nightmares since he arrived," Velen said. "I've noticed, when you're in the room, he seems to fare better."

The highlord snapped his mouth closed. Velen's voice was gentle as always, yet he still felt naive for not understanding before. He nodded once, numbly, his eyes on the floorboards again.

"I'll stay, then," he said, his voice strained, but still quiet.

Velen hummed in soft approval, and returned his attention to Anduin. Bolvar cautiously pulled up a chair, careful not to scrape the feet over the floor even as he set it down beside Velen, near the foot of the bed. He sat, and let a quiet, heavy sigh escape him. His body ached after Bleak Falls, but he hadn't rested yet. Not much, anyway. After arriving in Riverwood again, he'd busied himself overseeing his regiment while Velen worked in privacy, as he'd requested. Since the prophet had been rightfully preoccupied with Anduin, Bolvar had taken it upon himself to mend Duthorian and Ilsa, his wounded soldiers, as best he could. He was no expert Restoration wizard, but the pair were not put on this mission for nothing either. They could handle their injuries, especially with some healing, however little it was.

Silence claimed the small room, save for Velen's occasional shifting as he worked, on and off, to tend to Anduin. Bolvar didn't mind the quiet. The break, though he'd avoided it, was actually rather nice. And he was glad, after all, that he could do something for Anduin, even if it was just chase off nightmares. He smiled, recalling how many times the prince had come to the highlord's room as a little boy, when his father was up late and swamped with work, to seek relief from whatever bad dreams plagued children; it'd been a long time since Bolvar had that kind of stress to worry about. He wondered if that was why his presence helped now. He did not, at all, mind being a gatekeeper for Anduin's dreams. Not years ago, and certainly not today.

Bolvar sighed again, sinking some in his seat. He smiled and laughed once, softly, realizing that Anduin's presence, in turn, put the highlord's nerves to rest as well. He hadn't noticed until now, but he hadn't felt a moment of calm since Helgen fell. The prince's safe though troubled return was the first time he'd been able to relax. He was glad for it, however, and he knew Anduin would be too, should he catch word of it.

The idle smile on his face faltered, some, at the thought of Velen's expertise not being enough, but he quickly pushed it aside. Prince Anduin was safe, and he would recover with enough time. Bolvar was not foolish enough to think everything would be just as it were after this, but he did have hopes for the new normal that was to come.

And it _would_ come. Anduin would recover, and Bolvar would make sure of it.

———Hearth Fire 1st———

"Um..."

"What?"

"Are you certain, Dragonborn?"

"Yes, I'm certain," Wrathion fussed, pouting exaggeratedly. He was leaning back in a wooden chair, his arms crossed as he glowered, some, at the guardsman in front of him. Ander, he recalled him saying. "Or have you already forgotten the _night_ I've had?"

Ander's eyebrows crooked, vaguely, revealing a trace of aggravation. "No," he said quietly, but with that same annoyance tucked just out of sight, "I've not."

"I would hope not," Wrathion said with an insincere smile. "And I would hope King Wrynn be a bit more _grateful_."

Ander sighed. He glanced around the Sleeping Giant, but Highlord Bolvar was nowhere to be seen at the moment. A pity, he thought, because he wanted to ask him for his input on this. The highlord didn't exactly curb the Dragonborn's attitude much better than he, but all the same, Wrathion seemed at least a little more willing to not be such a _brat_ when it came to him.

But he _had_ played a big part in saving Prince Anduin. He needed to keep that in mind.

"He is," he finally said, answering Wrathion. "We all are. Wait here."

Wrathion's smile stretched, and turned genuine. "Thank you."

He turned away and headed for the counter, where the barkeep was currently preoccupied with the shelved contents on the back wall. Wrathion hummed, satisfied, and stretched his arms over the table to link his fingers and pop his stiffened knuckles and shoulders. An assortment of empty bowls and plates, once full of food, laid in piles across the table, practically licked clean. By the time Wrathion had reached Riverwood, he was _starving_. He was _still_ starving, and frankly, didn't understand how the guardsman couldn't be convinced.

To his delight, he had persuaded Whiterun to pay for an absurd, growing amount of food, as well as a room for him to spend the night in. He was beyond pleased with the success, because it meant he didn't have to fork over the gold himself. It would've been doable, he thought, but Whiterun surely had more to spare than he did. And what if he needed it later? He was Dragonborn, he couldn't be hindered by some troublesome economy. Fortunately, the nords were grateful as ever for the rescue of their White Pawn, and Wrathion could reap the spoils with free abandon.

Except when the soldiers doubted the importance of a third meal, he thought distastefully. Hah—no pun intended. He'd have to work that into a conversation with Right later.

Speaking of his agent, Wrathion wasn't sure where she'd gotten to. He wasn't worried, of course; his Blacktalons, if not at his flanks, could blend into the shadows so seamlessly she very well _could_ still be at his side. Even in the event she wasn't, the tavern was full of Whiterun soldiers that remained thankful for his help in Bleak Falls. Nothing less than a dragon would be endangering Wrathion here.

He frowned at the thought, growing annoyed. Deathwing's retreat remained frustrating to him, and still completely mind-boggling. Was he really _that_ scared of a little Restoration spell?

 _You are, too,_ a tiny part of him reminded. He screwed up his nose, dismissing the thought instantly, only to rein it back in so he could argue with it. _Yes_ , he supposed sun magic made him... _wary_. But only because things that had a talent for hurting dragons _should_ make him wary. He was, after all, coursing with dragon blood. He'd seen what the magic had done to Creed and Deathwing, and he was not terribly eager to find out what it might do to _him_. Perhaps it was a quick trigger to jump, but then, he'd felt apprehensive about Velen's 'Vampire's Bane' before he had much reason to think it would hurt dragons in particular.

Actually, that reminded him. Wrathion glanced up at the door he'd seen Velen lead Bolvar and one of his soldiers into, the latter with Prince Anduin in tow. The room had been closed for nearly two hours now, and he didn't know what he'd expected, but he was surprised and delighted to find the door ajar! From his seat, he could just make out the back of Bolvar's left side, seated near the foot of a bed that Wrathion assumed the prince was laid in. Wrathion leaned, hoping to see past Bolvar, but his angle only allowed him to get a _better_ view of the highlord. Annoying.

The food had distracted him well enough, but Wrathion still needed to, carefully, pick Anduin's brain regarding the dragons. The prince had known there were two before Wrathion even found him, and he hoped that meant he had answers to how Creed had appeared in the barrow. It wasn't _crucial_ , he supposed—none of it was, really, as long as he pushed every dragon back to extinction—but he still felt obligated to know as much as he could. After all, more information just made his duty as Dragonborn easier.

And if Anduin Wrynn had answers, Wrathion wanted them.

But he had to be delicate. The prince had been through something terrible. Wrathion already had some experience with those who suffered in Bleak Falls with Willem, and the deputy... well... Wrathion hadn't handled that _quite_ as well as he could've. Considering that, for the duration of their time together, Willem was either scared of or angry with him, and hadn't hesitated when an opportunity to escape and arrest him had presented itself. Not to mention their first few minutes together resulted in a fractured bone in Wrathion's nose, one he was glad had healed with the rest of his wounds in Bleak Falls. Now he was dealing with Anduin, whose information might've been even more valuable than Willem's. And if that was true, he _couldn't_ make the same mistakes twice.

None of that mattered, though, if the prophet never let the prince _out_. Ugh.

"Dragonborn," a familiar voice spoke.

Wrathion started and looked up just as Ander set down two dishes; a bowl of lukewarm, slightly stiffened bread, and a plate with a couple slabs of cooked red meat on it. Wrathion grinned, and for the third time, his stomach rumbled eagerly.

"Thank you, Ander," he said, emphasizing his name. Ander smiled fleetingly, then quickly left before Wrathion could trouble him further.

The food in the Sleeping Giant Inn was not superb, but then, Wrathion had dealt with far worse. And, as his gut was quick to remind him, he was starving. So the slight char and dryness to the meat didn't bother him in the least. His eyes fell upon the cracked door again, but Bolvar hadn't moved and Wrathion still couldn't make out any more of the prince than two bumps he knew were his feet, because his right-side one, the farthest from Wrathion, was mangled and blackened. Fortunately, the details were blurred due to the darkness of the small room and how far away Wrathion was. They did not sour his lunch any.

A shadow shifted to Wrathion's right, but he paid it no mind. His agent of the same name materialized into his line of sight and took a seat at the table. She spared the piles of dishes an unfazed glance, then took a discarded fork and snatched the square of meat Wrathion had just cut on his plate.

Wrathion clucked his tongue. " _Rude_?"

Right popped the bite-sized hunk into her mouth, and only offered a shrug in explanation. Wrathion seethed outwardly, then dismissed the event.

"What're we waiting for," Right asked, though it lacked the proper emphasis of a question.

"I'm _eating_ ," Wrathion hissed.

Right raised her brow, though her eyes were half-lidded, giving her a terribly unconvinced look that reminded Wrathion of Ander's own skeptical expression. "Uh-huh."

"Do you not see me eating?" he said, raising his voice and gesturing at his plate.

She leaned forward, fork readied, but this time Wrathion swatted it away with a snarl and curled lip. She sat back, deterred. "Come on," she said. "You're way too strung up about Deathwing to stay in this pub just to gorge yourself."

He huffed, because she was right. Ah—another pun she'd appreciate, though now he was upset with her and wouldn't give her the satisfaction. "I told you before," he said sorely, "that I was going to learn about Creed's presence in the barrow while we stayed in Riverwood."

Right's jaw shifted, scarcely. "Still doesn't explain what you're doing here, stuffing your face."

His eyes narrowed, irritation mounting. "I'm waiting," he said pointedly.

She didn't say anything, silently unraveling his meaning. She glanced at the door Velen, Bolvar and Anduin were behind, and before she could speak, Wrathion did.

"Yes," he said, " _now_ you've got it."

The slight didn't faze her. "King Wrynn Jr. knows something?" she asked.

Wrathion hummed as he cut his food, refusing to make even a smug, insincere smile. "I have a strong suspicion he might."

It was Right's turn to narrow her eyes, and for a moment Wrathion thought she was still unconvinced, but she leaned forward to perch her elbow on the table and he dismissed the beginnings of a snapping argument. "But the prophet won't let you in."

"Yes," Wrathion agreed, then paused. "Well—probably."

Right glanced at him. He sighed.

"The last time I tried to goad the prince for information, before we were ambushed by an aggravated draugr, the highlord looked as if he'd bite my..."

He stopped, eyebrows sloping into a severe crease above his nose. Right furrowed her own in turn, but Wrathion missed the gesture, still digesting a revelation. The dragonstone! The draugr had come looking for it just as Wrathion had gotten his hands on it. What had he done with it? He couldn't recall—no, yes he could. He'd tossed it, partially to free up his hands and partially to annoy the draugr. Didn't Prince Anduin catch it?

He frowned. This nord boy was beginning to keep a lot of things from Wrathion. Information, the dragonstone, his freedom from a cell...

"'Here lie our fallen lords'," Wrathion recited aloud, concentrating very hard to recall the words he'd read on the tablet, "'until the power of'..." His frown only deepened. "'Of _something_ revives them'."

A name, he knew, but he couldn't quite remember what it'd been. He did remember, though, that it had troubled him. He'd heard it before, though he hadn't the slightest clue where.

The Word Wall had been built and written as testament of the draugr, too; the 'keeper of the dragonstone'. That was how Wrathion knew it wasn't just some artsy slab of rock, but something critical. He couldn't afford to lose it, and should never have returned it to the prince. How foolish.

Right didn't question his outward musing; she was used to it. Instead, she commented on what he'd repeated from his memory. "That sounds familiar."

Wrathion looked at her, quirking an eyebrow. "Does it?"

"Sounds like you."

He narrowed his eyes, but carefully considered her implication. Upon replacing the word 'lords' with 'dragons', he saw the connection. He straightened his back some. "Yes, well..."

"Maybe you're really not the only one who knew dragons were coming back," she offered.

His eyebrows pinched again. "Doubtful," he said. "It was probably inscribed by some old dragon worshippers—and _they_ didn't have proof."

Right looked amused, and he already knew she was about to say something he wouldn't like. "And you do?"

He sucked in a breath; he'd been right. "Of course I do," he sputtered, quickly. "I have—"

"Had a dream," Right said, reflecting. "Sorry, a _prophecy_."

"Are you _doubting_ me, Right?" he growled.

"Never," she said, flatly; the sound was so sharp Wrathion's mouth snapped closed impulsively, and he growled again, in his throat, annoyed with himself. "Just pointing it out. You both had faith in the return of dragons, and you both were right."

" _Do not_ compare me to those bumbling _cultists_ ," he snarled, rekindling his earlier anger.

"Don't be so sullen," she droned. "You're leaps and bounds above any dragon fanatic."

"Yes," he agreed, hotly, "I am, so _don't_ lump me with them."

Right raised her hands, leaned back in her chair and submitted. Wrathion seethed again, his breath hot as it fired out of his nose, before turning back to his meal and stuffing a bit too much bread in his mouth. He almost considered forgetting the dragonstone, so frustrated with the conversation, but he quickly thought better of it. If nothing else, he wanted to remind himself of the name he'd read, but he still suspected the stone would be worthwhile to him beyond that. He swallowed, though the bread was only half-chewed, and Wrathion likened the lump that crawled down his throat to a rock. He gasped when it was over with, frustrated, and pounded his chest once to dislodge the blocked feeling.

He'd mistakenly spared a glance at Right, who was staring back at him with those hooded eyes. He was irritated all over again. "What have you been doing, anyway?" he asked crossly.

"Making friends," was all she offered.

Wrathion rolled his eyes. "Fine," he huffed. A thought occurred to him that made him feel somewhat better, or at least distracted. "Unless Left discovers something urgent, I have plans made."

"Plans," Right repeated, and again, it lacked the emphasis of a question, but that's what it was.

"Plans," Wrathion confirmed. "I believe we're overdue for a visit with an old friend of my own."

The way he spoke the words 'old friend' made Right try to figure out what other word it'd sounded suspiciously like. She said nothing, and she couldn't figure it out with so little to work with. Wrathion smirked, pleased.

"You'll see," he offered. He plucked a napkin from the table and rubbed his mouth, then dropped it on a plate and stood. "Now, I'm exhausted. Stay here and keep an eye on the prophet's room. If the prince becomes available, alert me immediately. Otherwise, don't disturb me."

Right clucked her tongue and gave a loose, wrong-handed salute. "Roger."

Satisfied, he left for the room Bolvar had rented and pointed out to him earlier. Like the food, it was nothing impressive. There was a bed with edge-frayed blankets, a nightstand and wardrobe of matching, jagged wood. A candle burned idly on the nightstand, dim with a shallow pool of wax at its base. On the foot of the bed, to Wrathion's surprise, was a pile of neatly folded clothes, topped with a bit of parchment. Wrathion snatched the note and skimmed it, though it was brief.

 _Sorry about your hand._  
_—Hansreim_

Wrathion squinted, racking his mind for an explanation—ah. This must have been the archer that had struck him as he clung to Creed's neck. He smiled, more snide than delighted. How thoughtful. He glanced at the clothes. They looked new, if that was saying much—they were, after all, made with a cheap cloth that, funnily enough, matched the splitting ends of the blanket.

Yet they still looked better than his shredded cloth and ravaged leather. And he appreciated what he suspected was a vague attempt to find clothes similar in color to his existing outfit. What a charmingly naive little soldier.

Wrathion crumpled the note in his hand and left it on the nightstand. He stripped off his ruined armor, but paused as he removed his last shirt. Tugging it off his head, he pressed a hand to his chest and found a pendant there. He'd forgotten all about Anduin Wrynn's Amulet of Kynareth. He pulled it off and looked it over. It was no more damaged than when he'd first found it. He shifted his jaw, considering, before a smirk crawled onto his face. Perhaps the prince would accept a trade. An amulet for a tablet.

He set it aside and finished undressing, tossing the handful of fabrics into a disheveled pile in the wardrobe to be abandoned. He only kept his scuffed boots, scarred gold dagger and the cloth and baubles of his turban, setting the latter two on the nightstand with the amulet and the former at its feet. He pulled the new pants on, but couldn't be bothered with the shirt for now.

He collapsed backwards into the bed, the pillow giving under his head more than he would've expected it to. He wasn't sure if it was his exhaustion or just how long it'd been since he'd laid in a bed, but for whatever reason, the cot was very comfortable. He sighed, absently, and his eyes rolled closed as he laid, arms and legs sprawled out, atop even the blanket. The muffled commotion of the regiment outside drifted away from him, and eventually, all he heard was the drum of his heartbeat, slow and soft. It lulled him deep into sleep, soothing him, and when it vanished he felt jarred. Then words were spoken, frightening and hoarse, and lines of hellfire lit up across his body, rending him apart.

He bolted upright, grounded in the tavern again, and his ears rung in a flat hum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [dragon translations](http://textuploader.com/xhlz)
> 
> everyone's having a bad day except the scary court wizard and you just know that's not good at all.


	12. Kinz Ko Rigir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **content warnings:** mentions of burns/cuts/death/impalement, mentions of misgendering/triggers (as in, a character's trigger)

Chapter 12: Kinz Ko Rigir  
"Stabbed in the Back"

———Hearth Fire 2nd———

When Wrathion woke again, after willing himself back into a sleep that, thankfully, did not torment him again, the room had been submerged in a deep, quiet darkness. Both the sunlight and candle fire had disappeared, and only dusted moonbeams slipped in from the small, high windows on the back wall. Wrathion blinked at the silvery lights as his mind slowly rose from his sleepy stupor. It was late, he could tell. Very late, actually—the darkness suggested at least midnight. What was that? Ten, twelve hours of sleep? Good.

He closed his parted mouth as well as his eyes and, with his creaking muscles, slowly lifted himself to a sit in the bed. A brighter, redder light crawled only an inch or two underneath the door, though even that was too dull to be the centered firepit, so Wrathion assumed some smaller lights were left on late at night. He craned his arms over his head and stretched, and was relieved when his back and shoulders popped, loudly, in his ears, then unnerved when he imagined his skin breaking under the force of that horrific Shout. He willed the thought back out of his mind.

He recalled his orders to Right, and frowned. She hadn't woken him, which meant the White Pawn hadn't made any noteworthy progress.

He furrowed his eyebrows, thinking. Any noteworthy progress... as far as Right _knew_ , that was. He smirked and kicked his feet off the bed, the floor cool underneath his toes. He snatched the woolen shirt from the nightstand and threw it over his head, tugging it at the waist until he was satisfied with the fit, then fought his sprawled, curling hair into something resembling submission before wrapping the marginally quelled mess in his turban. Ornaments attached, boots on. He glanced at the amulet and pocketed it. His smile returned, and satisfied, he stood up.

Wrathion approached the door and peeled it open, just a sliver. He peeked outside, and while he didn't see Right, he did note two Whiterun guards, both passed out on a bench across the room. They were the two injured ones, Wrathion recalled. He pulled the door open more, slowly, but saw no one else. He slipped out, latching the door soundlessly behind him. There still was no sign of Right, but she would not abandon her post. Even if he couldn't see her, all he'd have to do was utter her name and she'd materialize from some dark corner. So he dismissed her seeming absence and focused his attention on the prophet's room.

He was only confirming whether the prince was still unconscious, he assured himself. If he was, Wrathion would leave him be to continue healing. If he _wasn't_ , perhaps Anduin Wrynn would indulge an audience with the Dragonborn. There was only the issue that, more than likely, it was not just the Prince of Whiterun behind that door. Velen, and perhaps Bolvar, were likely there as well. If they were, Wrathion doubted they'd let him speak to Anduin, especially about dragons and barrows. Which was annoying, and frankly selfish on their part, as far as he was concerned, but what could he do? Roughing and kidnapping would not work with Anduin like it had with Willem. It hadn't really worked with Willem either, come to think of it.

It would also put an annoying bounty on Wrathion's head, and he didn't need that complication at the moment. He had no interest in seeing Dragonsreach's dungeons again anytime soon. Or being skewered on a bounty hunter's blade, which was the more likely outcome.

Wrathion took a deep breath and sighed, effectively aggravated. This would be so much easier if he just had a little _time_. But he _didn't_ have time—Deathwing was somewhere, anywhere by now, and while Left was tracking him, he was still free. He could strike anything, whenever he liked, and Wrathion was nearly helpless to stop him and that just made it _worse_. He needed time to prepare for his next encounter with the World Breaker. But he wanted to get his answers from Anduin Wrynn. Wrathion was certain the prince knew something, whether he realized it or not, that could help the Dragonborn nip any more dragon appearances in the bud and make quick work of this plague.

And he had that curious dragonstone to boot. Wrathion ground his teeth and grumbled, glaring at Velen's door.

His mind kept spinning back to the thought of luring them out, maybe with the excuse of returning the amulet, but it seemed impossible. Bolvar, maybe, if he was there, but what could he possibly do that would rouse the prophet away from his injured, mortified apprentice? Besides that whole kidnapping thing, but again, unnecessary bounties he didn't want to mess with.

Though the prophet _was_ quite injured himself—

 _No,_ his own mind hissed, hounding the idea away. He would be discrete about this, and probably not very illegal.

Wrathion pulled up his shoulders and leveled them, his lips puckered in a small pout and his eyebrows crooked, focused, on his destination. He approached the door, his steps soundless with great practice, and stopped within a foot of the wooden blockade. He inhaled, as quiet as his paces had been, and closed his eyes to mute the dim candles out of his sight.

" **Laas** ," he whispered, and his mind's eye mapped out the surrounding rooms.

He sensed the two Whiterun soldiers to his steep right, their auras lax and thus dull in glow. He also found Right, tucked in a shadow not more than two feet from Wrathion's room. He felt her watching him, a certain concentration in her aura. He just assumed she was studying him, or perhaps awaiting potential instructions. And finally, he could sense what hid beyond the door in front of him. His eyebrows scrunched together, confusion clouding his vision a hair.

He only sensed one presence. A small, weak one, laid on their back on the bed. Anduin Wrynn, Wrathion was certain, but—

Where was Bolvar? Or _Velen_? Wrathion frowned deeply. Was this some kind of trick? How could they know how to interfere with a dragon Shout, though? And why didn't it conceal Anduin as well? His frown worsened. He focused harder, but the only presences that appeared were sleeping forms in other rooms, their auras of no importance to him.

His mind began to ache at the long exertion of his magic, so he opened his eyes and swept the vision away. He continued to frown, now staring at the door. Were they simply... They couldn't just _not_ be in the room.

Could they?

His grimace turned to an irritated scowl. He glanced around the main room, as if one or both of them would be there and his Shout somehow hadn't picked it up, but there was no one he didn't know about and he realized the gesture had been useless. He faced the door again and thought, for a long moment, about what to do.

He decided he had faith in his power—though he very much worried at the moment—and mustered a knock on the door. There was a pause, and Wrathion nearly thought he'd receive no answer, until a voice finally spoke.

"Come in?"

Wrathion set his hand on the doorknob, silently twisting it open. The room was actually lit within; Wrathion hadn't noticed because the outside was, too, so no light came from under the door. What surprised him more, however, was that Anduin Wrynn was awake, and he lifted his head from the pillows to see who it was. The prince looked equally surprised. There was no one else in the room, just as Wrathion's Shout had assured him.

"You," Anduin said, his voice terribly weak. He winced, struggling for a moment to recall his name. "Wrathion."

Wrathion blinked, once, and then masked his alarm with a disarming grin. "Prince Anduin."

Anduin blinked as well, though his was much slower. He was quiet for a long moment, trying to puzzle out the Dragonborn's presence on his own. Wrathion slipped fully into the room, swiping the door closed soundlessly behind him. He spared one last, quick glance over the room, and was confident that no one else was there.

 _Why_ that was, he didn't know, but he would gladly take advantage.

Anduin still hadn't spoken, so Wrathion decided to take that into his own hands. "I see you're awake. Some color has returned to your face." It was a lie, unfortunately, but he delivered it flawlessly.

Anduin winced. His mind was slow and fogged, Wrathion presumed. He needed to be delicate, he reminded himself. Delicate and patient.

"May I sit?" he asked, gesturing at one of the chairs.

Anduin started that time, and shook his head, trying to disperse the haze. "Yes, of course," he managed, a little clearer, but his voice remained a strained whisper.

Wrathion stretched his smile momentarily, then pulled one of the chairs around so that its left side faced the foot of Anduin's bed. He sat in it and linked his fingers over a crossed knee. Anduin's eyes had fallen to the Dragonborn's hands, but his mind was somewhere else altogether. Wrathion waited, again, for him to ask a question or otherwise speak, but the prince remained fixed on his interlocked hands. So he started the conversation back up himself.

"Does something trouble you, Prince?"

Anduin didn't hear. Or at least, he didn't react. Wrathion's eyebrows twitched, slightly, but otherwise he made sure he didn't move.

"Prince Anduin," he said, a bit louder.

Still, he didn't respond. There was a fog to his eyes, unfocused on Wrathion's hands. The Dragonborn took notice of a faint, indefinite shiver. He'd lost the prince to a low point of shock, it seemed. He wondered how long he'd been slipping in and out of such trances? Wrathion pursed his lips, thinking, then smiled when an idea bloomed.

"Kulaan," he said coolly, recalling the surprise it'd caused Anduin before.

As he'd hoped, the prince snapped out of his daze. His eyes fired to Wrathion's, but that was when he realized it hadn't been as good of an idea as he'd first thought. Anduin's breathing had abruptly turned shallow, and his shuddering worsened quite noticeably. Wrathion's hands tensed, and he sat up, partly untangling his crossed legs.

"Er, Pri—"

"That word," he croaked, quiet—somehow even quieter than before. He took a sharp breath and flinched, as though the gesture had cut him. "That word," he repeated, urgency rising.

"It's nothing foul," Wrathion assured, his calm quickly slipping. So much for 'delicate'. "It's—"

" _What_ is that word?" Anduin demanded.

"Prince!" Wrathion blurted hurriedly, throwing up his hands. "It means prince, is all—Kulaan Anduin. See?"

Anduin lurched again, and Wrathion immediately realized repeating it had been completely clueless of him. He resisted the urge to curse, instead planting his ungrounded foot on the floor with the other so he could lean even further, gently waving his hands in what he hoped would bring some semblance of calm to the prince.

"Take it easy," he said, smiling, but it was strained and nervous. "It's only a word—"

"The dragon," Anduin muttered. His voice was nearly inaudible again. Wrathion wasn't sure if that was good or not. "Deathwing. He called me that."

Wrathion blinked once, stunned.

"Oh," was all he could think to say.

Anduin closed his mouth and swallowed; it sent a hard shudder throughout his body. Wrathion licked his lips, not realizing he had. Eventually, Anduin's eyes left him, instead looking down and going to grip his shirt, only to stop himself. A sadness warped his expression that Wrathion knew he'd put there and felt foul for it. The Dragonborn leaned back in his chair, clasping one closed hand within the other and laying them on his lap. Silence consumed the room, but it was heavy and uncomfortable and Wrathion loathed it. He dared not speak though, fearing his words like he had when buried beneath the prince's ward, and Deathwing's hellfire. What had he been thinking? It was a useless question, he knew exactly what. The last time he'd called Anduin that, the prince jumped as if the word were ugly. An insult. Now, Wrathion knew why. Something sharp twisted in his back.

A voice told him to simply shut up, but the rest of his mind was loud. He ran so many words through his head, looking for some way back out of this crushing silence. Nothing seemed assuredly safe, and that meant everything had the chance to do more damage. He ground his teeth, frustrated, though he couldn't articulate who he was frustrated with. Anduin? Deathwing? Himself? The imaginary blade twisted harder. He clenched his teeth even tighter, hurting himself in the process.

A tiny idea poked through his noisy, spinning mind. He saw it, for just a moment, but buried it in a whirl of uncertainty, irritation and pride. He wouldn't stoop to such a thing—he refused. _It'd only remind him of more ugly memories,_ he told himself. _Or it'd have no effect at all,_ he tried. _It'd be patronizing!_ he insisted.

But he couldn't shake the thought away. He took a deep breath, positively annoyed, and sighed.

"That was, uh," he paused, struggling. It'd been far easier in Bleak Falls, when the compliment had snuck free under the haze of his frustration—and when he didn't fear anything he said would only make the situation worse. "That was something."

Anduin didn't respond. Wrathion looked up to find the prince only staring at him, looking absolutely bewildered. _Smooth,_ some unhelpful corner of his mind jeered.

"What you did back there," he said, for a moment thinking it clarified, then realizing it didn't. He groaned, glaring at the ceiling. "I mean, to Deathwing. The magic you'd used. It was... something."

Anduin still didn't say anything. Wrathion was afraid to look, worried he'd still be lost, but he pushed it back and met the prince again. The confusion had been swept over by surprise. A moment later, the corners of Anduin's mouth twitched up, though that was all he could manage. But it meant Wrathion's idea had worked, if just marginally. It gave him room to relax, at least, though the knife in his back remained.

Wrathion cleared his throat, looking somewhere else for a moment, as if the solution to this suffocating quiet was just waiting for him in some corner. He saw another idea and seized it. "Your leg," he said before he could even really think it through. He looked at Anduin again, now trying to come up with the rest of the sentence he'd started. "It's... How is it?" he managed awkwardly.

Anduin glanced at him, then down at his leg. He sucked in a breath at the sight of it, perhaps not realizing it was exposed from under the blanket. His knee curled, slightly, and he winced painfully. Wrathion opened his mouth and promptly shut it. Anduin, clenching his teeth, grabbed the edge of the blanket and tugged it over the damage, which was at least bandaged to conceal the worst of it. Wrathion's voice surged back up.

"Never mi—"

"I don't know," Anduin said at the same time, honestly. He looked troubled with the reply. "I haven't asked."

Wrathion didn't miss the way the answer sounded like he'd been too afraid to. He nodded, mutely, and glanced at his hands before realizing how pitiful it made him look and hissing, almost as silently. He looked at a wall instead. He couldn't shake this stabbing pain in his back and it was annoying him. Like a cut, maybe even laced with poison; the blade that made the wound so sharp it pierced the bones and allowed the steel to sit in his chest cavity, tainting the organs there. His heart hurt with every beat, and breathing wasn't much better. Both felt shallow, as if drenched and weighted in the make-believe poison.

"Dragons."

Wrathion started. He looked at the prince, completely unaware of what had been going on outside of himself. "Whuh—pardon?" he said, correcting his embarrassing sputter mid-sentence.

Anduin had braced his expression some. He looked to be going for something like what the councilmen he lived around might expect of their prince, but the sweat and quivering of his features damaged the look. Wrathion thought, though, that it was better to pretend he didn't notice.

"You're here about the dragons," the prince answered, his voice just a hoarse whisper once more.

Wrathion blinked and shut his mouth. He'd finally worked it out. The imaginary knife twisted, and he put all his attention, for a moment, into not reacting to the phantom pain. He urged himself to agree—that was what he was here for, after all—but every time he tried, that pain in his back flared warningly. It was eerily familiar, but he couldn't for the life of him place where he'd felt it before, and if it'd been any realer then.

Anduin watched him, that shivering mask still on his face. He stared at Wrathion until the Dragonborn couldn't stand it or the twisting pain in his back. He tore his eyes away, finding that wall again, collecting himself. This was ridiculous. _What_ was this pain? When he took a deep but subtle breath and met Anduin again, the prince was looking at his lap, fingers curling in the collar of his shirt. Wrathion had expected to feel relieved, but anger flared in his chest instead. This nord prince, this _boy_ was—

The knife twisted. Wrathion's whirling mind finally came to a crashing halt.

He knew where he'd felt the pain before.

He stared at Anduin, though he was somewhere deep inside himself now and couldn't truly see the prince. It wasn't a knife at all. It was a word—that nasty, _ugly_ word he hated so. But only when it was brandished like a blade and jabbed into him, its memory echoing in his mind, spreading to every nerve like a rogue's poison. It ached, and made him feel utterly sick.

But no one had said it. So why—

No. It was another useless question; he knew why. Anduin's face, the pain and distress that had warped it, was all the evidence he needed.

The dagger in Wrathion's back was named 'boy'. Anduin Wrynn's was named 'kulaan'.

 _Smooth,_ his mind repeated sorely. It was no longer just a sarcastic slight, but an outright scolding, a _branding_ , meant to remind him, forever, how completely _careless_ he'd been.

"Wrathion?"

He breathed, only then realizing he hadn't been. His vision cleared from its unrealized blackness. Anduin was staring at him, his braced mask gone, replaced with open concern and lingering shakes.

Wrathion blinked. Then he mustered every bit of himself and smiled, but even with all that effort, he felt the tension in his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth.

"Did you say something, Prince Anduin?" he asked. At least his voice played nice.

Whatever pitiful, dawning face he'd been making was mostly gone, and Anduin seemed to be wondering if he'd imagined it in the first place. After a moment, he relaxed some, but the questioning crease in his eyebrow barely remained.

"You wanted to talk about the dragons," he repeated softly. It hadn't ever been a question, but it sounded even less like one now.

"Yes," Wrathion forced the answer out, but the struggle was hardly apparent in his face or tone. "I have high hopes that you might know something I don't. That no one does."

Anduin frowned. "Like..."

"Creed," Wrathion said. He shifted, crossing his legs again, and tilted his head. "You remember him, don't you? The small one we defeated. No one had known about him prior to delving into Bleak Falls, including myself."

Anduin nodded, his frown remaining. "I remember," he said. His eyebrows pinched momentarily. "What about him?"

"You knew about him before we found you, is that right?" Wrathion asked. Anduin nodded again. "I want to know how you discovered him." He meant to end it there, but an afterthought made him hurry to continue. "If you're willing to discuss it right now, that is."

He resisted a twinge afterward. He needed the answers now, and if Anduin wasn't willing to recall—

 _Delicate,_ he reminded himself. He settled, and fixed his smile.

Anduin was slow to answer. Wrathion began to fear he was slipping into another bout of shock, but he shifted and pulled himself up some in bed. He winced, surely at his right leg, but finished the motion and was perched, now, on a heap of pillows and the headboard behind them.

"I..." His voice was so quiet Wrathion almost thought he'd imagined it, but he continued. "I'd been in that chamber before. The one with the Wall."

Wrathion recalled his distress upon arriving there, after fleeing from the draugr. That made a bit more sense now. He only nodded, urging Anduin to go on.

"Deathwing had come in after I got there. He didn't know I was there, at first." Anduin bit his lip and looked down, away from Wrathion. He fidgeted with the front of his shirt again, and for the first time, Wrathion noticed. "He brought a member of my security with him. Captain Taylor."

Wrathion, too, remembered the bones he'd seen in front of the Word Wall. He hadn't thought anything of them then, but—how did Anduin know the bones had been his captain's? They were as indistinguishable as any other nord skeleton Wrathion had ever seen. Perhaps he hadn't been a skeleton when Anduin saw him. The thought was unnecessarily jarring.

"He..." Anduin started, and trailed off.

Wrathion focused his eyes, his vision having dimmed as he cycled through the memory. The prince's eyebrows were pinched together as he continued to stare vacantly at his lap, fingers twisted up in the fabric of his shirt. Wrathion's lips twitched to speak, but he quickly decided against doing so. Anduin only seemed to be making sense of something—perhaps something he hadn't considered at the time. He had, according to himself, been hiding mere feet from Deathwing. He probably hadn't thought about a lot of things right then.

"He said something," the prince finally said, startling Wrathion only just. "I don't know what. I couldn't understand it, but it sounded like the Shouts he'd used when you fought him."

"Did it?" Wrathion asked, almost instantly, far too curious to realize how obvious it sounded.

Anduin only nodded. His eyebrows remained furrowed. "And the earth shook, and broke apart, and Creed just... appeared."

"Appeared," Wrathion repeated, his tone goading for something more elaborate.

"I didn't see," Anduin said, nearly defensive, and Wrathion cursed himself privately. He was eager, so very eager, and it bled through his voice to the point that he wondered, perhaps, if Anduin thought he didn't care about the prince's suffering.

Wrathion blinked, his breath catching in his throat. Except—of course he didn't care. It was unfortunate, yes, and it complicated some of Wrathion's plans and the like, but it wasn't any cause for alarm to him... _personally_. They weren't friends. Not a day ago he would have abandoned the prince in a moment's notice if it were between his rescue and pursuing Deathwing. Because he was Dragonborn, of course, and he couldn't just—no, why was he _explaining_ himself? He didn't need a reason for putting Skyrim above one prince, and he didn't need to feel guilty if that prince thought he only cared about the dragons, because they _weren't_ friends.

Except he'd wronged Anduin in a way he couldn't stand, couldn't _stomach_ being wronged himself, and he was revolted with the knowledge. But—that wasn't fair, he argued. He hadn't _known_ —and, honestly, how many times would somebody call Anduin by his title in the tongue of _dragons_? Practically never, now that he was free of Bleak Falls, while Wrathion would be dealing with the word 'boy' for another half-decade, at least, and then 'man' after that and—

He shut his eyes, breathing deep. He would not let his mind spiral out of control on behalf of this nord prince. It was ridiculous. He smiled, wholly frustrated, and opened his eyes to Anduin again.

The prince was staring at him, confused, and again slightly worried for Wrathion's sake. His smile faltered. Couldn't he just be _rude_ like his father and court wizard?

"Appeared," Wrathion said again, focusing on keeping his curiosity—and mounting aggravation—well out of sight.

Anduin blinked, but didn't prod about whatever display the Dragonborn's face had put on while his mind ran off to fuss about useless things without him. "From the ground," he said, but it sounded like a guess.

"Hm," was all Wrathion could muster afterward. This story was woefully vague, and he couldn't tell if Anduin remembered little or was avoiding remembering lots. Either one was aggravating, but one justified prying and the other didn't.

... Didn't if they were _friends_ , that was. Which they _weren't_.

"Is there more?" Wrathion asked, suddenly, with an irritated voice that was directed more at his own fumbling brain, not Anduin, but he knew the prince wouldn't be able to tell the difference. Wrathion had decided not to care about that.

Unsurprisingly, Anduin's eyebrows pinched again, irked. Wrathion didn't allow his face, which shared the same slight irritation as his tone, to budge, feigning ignorance to all of it. The prince was quick to dismiss it, though, and shifted as he thought.

"I don't know," he said, but it wasn't a definitive answer, as he immediately looked to be racking his brain for a true reply. "That's where I found that stone tablet," he offered, still thinking.

Wrathion's irritation vanished under a wave of excitement that jumpstarted his whole body. "The dragonstone," he said, any thought to contain his fascination again cast aside.

Anduin looked at him again, and besides looking surprised, didn't seem upset this time. He nodded faintly. "You could read it before."

Wrathion smirked, sitting back some. "Yes, I could."

"You seem to know a lot about the dragon language," Anduin said, his eyes narrowed some.

Wrathion ignored the apprehension to his voice, because he was ignoring that he'd said something completely (but unknowingly!) cruel to the prince. "It comes with the name."

He laughed, once, and it wasn't wholly amused. "What did it say?"

Wrathion's smirk only grew. "Het nok un mahlaa—"

"In a language I speak, thank you," Anduin chided, smirking back at him. There was a small tremble to his voice, guarded by open irritation, but Wrathion had a hunch it was the discomfort of hearing dragon words that shook his comment.

He contained his smile, ignoring the slight stitch in the pit of his chest made by his theory. "'Here lie our fallen lords, until the power of _someone_ revives them'," he answered, his voice as proud as when he'd recited it in its original form a moment ago.

Anduin caught the slight inflection on the end. "'Someone'?"

"It was a name," Wrathion said, feigning a lack of concern for the detail. "I forget what it was."

Anduin closed his mouth, humming vaguely. He looked, for a moment, as if he were trying to remember in the cavern, when Wrathion had actually mumbled the name itself, but like the apparent Shout, he couldn't recall.

"But!" Wrathion said, sitting forward again with crossed arms. "If you hand me the stone, I could remind myself."

"I can't," Anduin said.

Wrathion frowned, furrowing his eyebrows. "What do you mean you can't?"

"I don't have it anymore."

" _What_ —"

"Bolvar does," Anduin added. "He didn't want me to be burdened carrying it around."

Wrathion snapped his mouth closed. "Oh," he said. He sat back, huffing, but with a certain air of pride regardless. "Fine. I will ask him for it later, then."

"The name wasn't Deathwing, was it?" Anduin asked.

The question was so sudden and so confusing to boot that Wrathion could only frown at him. "Um," he said pointedly.

Anduin resisted a second smile. "Did the name on the tablet, which you've forgotten, happen to be Deathwing?"

"No," Wrathion said, but his confusion remained. "Deathwing is a name given to the dragon by the nords after the fall of Helgen. It's not his true name, and I doubt scribes from centuries ago could've accounted for it." His eyebrows furrowed when he fell quiet, because he still didn't understand where the question had come from. "Why?"

Anduin frowned, and after a moment, looked away. "I don't know."

"Yes you do," Wrathion said.

He bit at his cheek, thinking. "What it says—fallen lords who someone's power _revives_?"

This was getting annoying because Wrathion didn't understand what the prince was getting at. " _So_?"

"The stone was made by dragon worshippers, wasn't it?" he said, looking at Wrathion again. "They'd call the dragons their 'lords', wouldn't they?"

Wrathion's eyebrows furrowed. Now he just sounded like Right. The prince saw his blatant frustration, though, and chose to continue before he could be snapped at more.

"And that power could be a Shout, couldn't it?" he said. "A Shout that revives fallen dragons."

The Dragonborn's eyebrows sloped even further, but he wasn't fed up with Anduin any longer. He was concentrating on what the prince was saying, because suddenly, it actually almost made sense.

"You think," he started, then paused, considering it all again. "You think the dragonstone is referring to Deathwing?"

Anduin frowned again. "Maybe? I'm thinking more about the 'power' and who it 'revives'."

Wrathion thought about it for a moment. "And what _are_ you thinking about that?"

"That Creed crawled out of the ground," Anduin said, "after a dragon Shouted over his... well..."

He understood at last. "You think Creed was resurrected from the dead." He grinned, and Anduin couldn't tell if he was baffled or pleased. It was a strange combination of the two, honestly. "Like draconic necromancy, is that right?"

"Something like that," Anduin said warily. "Sun magic is very powerful against products of necromancy."

"Hah," Wrathion laughed once, thrilled. "Of course!"

"You're really excited about this," Anduin observed, caught between amused and unnerved.

Wrathion cleared his throat, leaning back in his seat. He hadn't even realized he'd moved forward. He grinned again. "Anything that I can use to banish these dragons back into extinction is worth excitement, Prince Anduin."

Anduin held his brace for a moment longer. Then his shoulders sagged and he sighed some, looking away. He looked sad, though he tried to hide it. Wrathion didn't like that it was the same sad he'd looked after his _smooth_ error. The knife twisted just slightly in his back. He scrunched up his nose.

"Do dragons absorb souls too?"

Wrathion looked up at Anduin, once again surprised by his sporadic questions. "No. Well—" he paused, thinking about it. "Not in the same sense I do."

Anduin stared at him for a long moment, thinking about something. "Captain Taylor's b... body," he said.

"His body—?"

"His bones," Anduin interrupted, correcting himself. He looked down. "When Deathwing dropped him in front of the wall, he was still..." he swallowed, "intact."

Wrathion frowned some. "And?"

"And after Deathwing Shouted..." He paused, thinking about something very thoroughly. "When I looked, Captain Taylor was just bones."

Wrathion furrowed his eyebrows deeply. "Why do you ask if dragons absorb souls like I do?"

Anduin looked at him. Wrathion didn't miss the hint of fear in him. "Did you see them too? His bones?"

Wrathion nodded, still confused.

"Didn't they look like Creed's?"

The Dragonborn blinked. His stomach reeled in knots, though he didn't know why. He didn't know what that information meant, but Anduin wasn't wrong. Taylor's bones were as white and clean as the giant resting skeleton of the dragon whose soul Wrathion had devoured. Not even two weeks sitting at the foot of that wall could've done such a thing to the captain.

Anduin fidgeted with his shirt again, lost in thought. Wrathion squinted at the fixation, one the prince seemed to be entirely unaware of. "What're you doing?"

He started and glanced up at Wrathion. He saw the Dragonborn's eyes move from his hand to the prince's face, and realized he was fidgeting. "Oh," he said, setting his hands down in the bed. "Nothing. I'm used to having something there."

Wrathion pinched his eyebrows, until he remembered the bargaining chip he'd brought with him. He opened his mouth to say something, but failed to make any comprehensible sound and awkwardly shut it. Anduin resisted most of a confused look, but Wrathion caught it regardless and only became more embarrassed. He cleared his throat, forcing a cool onto his face, and went rifling through his pocket.

"It wouldn't happen to be an amulet, would it?" he asked.

Anduin's eyes widened. "How did you—"

He stopped himself when Wrathion pulled the Kynareth's amulet out, holding it up for the prince to see. The stark shock on his face promptly turned to a grin, nearly unbefitting of his sickened state, and he raised his arms to retrieve it. Wrathion—and he was quite proud of his quick thinking—leaned forward to prevent the prince from sitting up.

"You found it!" Anduin said, now transfixed with the amulet. "I thought I'd lost it."

"I seem to be good at finding things," Wrathion shrugged, unable to resist a smirk. "Forgive the damage."

"No, it's fine," Anduin said. His smile grew, rubbing a thumb over the blue gem in the chest of the bird. "I'm just glad to have it back." He looked up again. "Thank—"

But his eyes rose above Wrathion's head, and they widened.

"Dragonborn."

Wrathion whirled in his seat. Velen stood in the doorway—he hadn't even heard it open. His heart leapt into his throat and he stood, fumbling to put on a friendly smile that only looked spooked, like he was some child caught someplace he shouldn't be.

"Prophet," he greeted, pleasantly, though he cursed the way his masked alarm bled right through the tone. "Prince Anduin and I were just—"

"It's no trouble," Velen assured him. Wrathion's tension eased some. "As long as Prince Anduin doesn't mind," he added, eyeing the prince in question.

The knife in Wrathion's back twisted, reminding him how very possible the chance of Anduin saying yes, he _did_ mind, was.

"No," was what the prince said instead, and if his smile was false, Wrathion couldn't tell. "He was just asking about my leg."

Wrathion breathed easy when the answer registered. That seemed unnecessarily generous of him to add, but Wrathion wasn't about to waste the opportunity. He smiled at Velen. "Dragon fire is a nasty thing. I'm relieved to see he's in the hands of a talented healer, however."

Velen's own smile widened, but Wrathion felt like the prophet saw through every word. "You needn't forget who brought him to me, Dragonborn."

Wrathion offered a sheepish laugh, playing his anxiety off as bashful. "Yes, well," he said, knowing he wouldn't finish. He cleared his throat. "I must be going, though—I'm quite busy, you see, what with, ehm," he rolled his wrist, stuck; "dragons on the loose. You understand."

Velen sighed out a single laugh. "I do."

"Good," Wrathion said, his voice just a bit too high. He started for the door. "Goodnight, Prophet. Prince Anduin."

"Goodnight," Anduin said. "And thank you."

Wrathion glanced at him, still unable to detect any insincerity in the prince's smile, then focused on getting out of there. Velen stepped aside, opening up the doorway for Wrathion. He was nearly home free, until the prophet's hand landed gently on his elbow, like a cloud. But just as a cloud could stop sunlight, his hand stopped Wrathion.

"Next time," he whispered so only the Dragonborn could hear, "you need only ask to speak with the prince."

Wrathion snapped his mouth closed. Velen released him, to his relief.

"Goodnight, Dragonborn," he said, heading into the room.

Wrathion only nodded and cleared the doorway. He heard Velen close it behind him and exhaled, not realizing he'd held his breath. He fired a look back at the door, an indignant ember flickering in the pit of his chest, but he just scoffed and marched back to his room. He hesitated short of the door, eyebrows furrowing, as a realization dawned upon him.

"Right," he said, barely remembering to keep his voice low so as to not wake the two sleeping soldiers on the bench.

Right materialized from the darkness, her usual unfazed expression puppeteering her features. "You were in there for a while," she commented. "Did it go well?"

The question was rhetorical and only served to annoy Wrathion further. "Why didn't you tell me when the prophet left his apprentice unattended?" he hissed.

"You needed rest," she said. "You looked terrible."

His nostrils flared. "I _told you_ —"

"The prophet agreed with me," she continued over him, and shrugged. "He knew you wanted to talk to the prince, though, and said he'd excuse himself when you woke up, since you're so _shy_."

Wrathion fell silent, staggered. It took him a moment to rekindle his frustration. "But—you _talked_ to him? And—how did he know I was coming? I didn't—"

"He left barely a minute before you came out," she said. "You're really surprised that the guy who could sense a half-dead kid from a hold away could tell when you got up?"

" _Yes_ ," he whined.

She clucked her tongue. "I asked him how Wrynn Jr. was doing earlier. He figured it out when the highlord bristled and mumbled something about you bothering said prince in the barrow too."

He blinked sharply, sputtered and then sighed, rubbing his face with a hand. "Why didn't you _tell_ me any of this when I woke up, then?"

She smirked. "Must've slipped my mind," she lied, and Wrathion remembered why, though she thought herself hilarious, ' _jokester_ ' was not quite the word he'd use to describe her.

He groaned loudly and started with heavy feet to his room. "Don't disturb me," he snapped.

"You got it," she said. "Goodnight."

He shut the door, startling the Whiterun soldiers awake. Right laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [dragon translations](http://textuploader.com/xxgx)
> 
> that went well, right? i mean, besides all the things that went varying levels of wrong. also words suck when you're agender and/or not on real good terms with dragons.
> 
> inconspicuous reminder that this isn't a romance even though there's romance in it ~~eventually, probably~~. just putting that out there. just in case the next... oh... dozen or two chapters aren't very romancey. or in fact an unspecified number of chapters after that but ESPECIALLY the next dozen-or-two-dozen. i mean, hypothetically. and not that the first dozen have been particularly romancey, but, you know.
> 
> what i'm saying is anduin's on the brink of going home and you know how varian feels about dragonborns. and anduin not being home. and anduin not being home WITH dragonborns.
> 
> there are dragons everywhere no one has time for teenage love affairs right now okay????


	13. Hofkiin-Daal Jun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **content warnings:** mentions of death, burns  & amputation

Chapter 13: Hofkiin-Daal Jun  
"Homecoming King"

———Hearth Fire 2nd———

"Hey."

Wrathion grumbled.

"Wake up."

He mumbled something foul and rolled away from the voice, his own disappearing into the pillow. With a rush, his sleepy warmth disappeared from him and he flinched, hissing, as he curled closer to himself in an effort to hold onto what was left of the heat.

"Ved Kulaan," came a voice that sounded familiar, but the jagged tongue of dragons disguised it.

Wrathion cursed and, hesitantly, rolled partway onto his back again. Right stood at his bedside, his blanket clasped in her hand. Her presence jolted him awake with another sharp swear.

"Right," he sputtered. "I told you not to—"

"Whiterun's packing up," she interrupted.

Wrathion stopped, blinking the sleep away, while the words settled in his mind. He considered why that was important—he'd spoken to Prince Anduin, and learned some interesting things as a result about Creed and the—

The last of his exhaustion disappeared under revelation. The dragonstone!

He leapt out of bed, hardly realizing the floor was cool under his bare feet, as he tore through the door into the rest of the tavern. Whiterun was nowhere in sight; the rooms they'd occupied the night before were ajar and empty, left without a trace of the regiment ever having been there. Wrathion swore for the third time and hurried outside, where Riverwood was alive with an early morning buzz. Wrathion had thought it cozy and quaint when he arrived yesterday, but today his mind was much too busy and loud to care. Whiterun was close, though; the regiment gathered at the northern gate where the horses had been left. There was a small carriage that hadn't been there before, and additional guardsmen that hadn't accompanied Bolvar—his regiment wore chain mail, not solid steel.

They were indeed preparing for the trip back to the city, but there was time before they would leave. Wrathion relaxed, sighing. He truly did not want to follow the soldiers all the way back to Whiterun.

"Forget something?" Right asked, caught up.

Wrathion glanced back at her and saw his boots hooked in her hand, but he wondered if she meant those or Whiterun. He grumbled, annoyed, and took the footwear to a bench to put them on.

"Why didn't you wake me earlier?" he asked sullenly.

"Didn't realize you had unfinished business with Whiterun," she said. It was a genuine answer; he'd forgotten, in his fuss last night, that he hadn't told her anything about his conversation with the White Pawn, including that Highlord Bolvar had the dragonstone.

"Never mind," he said, setting his last, dressed foot down on the cobble. He screwed up his nose. "Did you call me 'Black Prince' earlier?"

"Whiterun's given you a pseudo name," Right said. "Maybe don't want to draw the wrong kind of attention."

He blinked, scowling. "And where did they conjure up _that_ of all things?"

"Consistency?" she guessed. "They call Deathwing the 'Black Scourge'."

Wrathion laughed, humorless. "Lumping me in with the standard dragon again? Why am I not surprised." He paused for a time, considering something. "Though, it has a nice ring to it."

Right hadn't expected that. "Does it?"

He glanced at her, pretending he didn't know why she would ask. He smirked. "'Prince' is a good word, Right. Not even I'm going to dispute that." He got to his feet with a certain energy to his step. "And I like the idea of _succeeding_ the 'Black Scourge' as a prince does a king."

Not to mention the pleasant implication that Deathwing would _die_ when Wrathion did so.

"I like it!" he announced, and straightened himself proudly. "The Black Prince Wrathion." He said, and laughed again, pleased.

Right shifted her jaw. Perhaps she shouldn't have told him; he seemed to be having a field day with it. "Didn't you have to talk to Whiterun." It wasn't really a question.

Wrathion startled, glancing up at the packing regiment again. "Oh! Yes, I do. Prepare to depart in the next half hour, I want to get back to business as soon as I'm done here."

Right clucked her tongue in acknowledgement and splintered off into town. Wrathion adjusted his shoulders, his smirk quickly resurfacing, and made his way to the regiment beyond the gate. He didn't see Velen or Anduin Wrynn, but he guessed they were within the carriage, safe from dealing with horses and morning chill on top of their wounds. The guardsmen in plate must have brought the carriage, explaining their presence here as well.

"You're positive?" a soldier piped up somewhere to Wrathion's right.

"I counted three times, we're one short!" another said frantically.

The first soldier sighed, frustrated. "Maybe—" she paused, struggling. "Maybe it just got loose. Forget it; King Wrynn's not going to care about one damned horse as long as we get the prince back safely."

"Especially if he doesn't hear about it," the other mumbled.

"Right, so quit _squealing_ your foul head off."

"You asked!"

Wrathion dismissed the banter. He'd spotted Bolvar on the far side of the regiment, staring out into the mountain valley he and the rest of Whiterun would soon be traveling through. The Dragonborn adjusted his shoulders again, putting on his comfiest smirk as he approached.

"Highlord," he called.

Bolvar turned round in one swift, startled motion. He smiled and relaxed at the sight of Wrathion. "Dragonborn," he greeted.

Wrathion lifted his chin a bit, stopping beside the highlord. "I take it you're nearly set to return to your city at last."

"Yes," Bolvar said with a sigh, glancing over the regiment. "In good part thanks to you."

Wrathion hummed, shrugging off the comment.

"You're not joining us," he added. It was an observation more than a question, yet Wrathion caught the trace of uncertainty even so.

"I cannot, I'm afraid," he agreed. "It was my understanding I'm not to return to Whiterun until Prince Anduin is safe _and_ Deathwing is dead."

Bolvar smiled, but his eyebrows pinched. "King Varian won't throw you in a cell for failing to slay Deathwing, Dragonborn."

"Are we talking about the same king, Highlord?"

He laughed and sighed again. "Very well, point taken. He certainly wasn't _happy_ to hear the dragon's escaped. Nor that there are more..."

"I'll leave you to settle that," Wrathion said idly, looking out at the valley. "He probably won't throw you in a cell."

"He wouldn't jail y—"

Bolvar stopped when Wrathion's half-lidded, unconvinced eyes returned to him, as if he could read the Dragonborn's thoughts. Whiterun had arrested him once already. For the third time, Bolvar sighed, though this one was a bit shorter and gruff.

"Fair enough."

Wrathion smirked absently, then twisted so his feet were pointed at the highlord, his back straight and a keen look about him. "So."

Bolvar sloped an eyebrow skeptically. "So."

"Prince Anduin tells me you've been safeguarding that stone tablet he found."

Ah. Bolvar lifted himself up some, holding a small, imaginary barrier between himself and the Dragonborn. "When you went to check on his leg last night."

He sounded positively unconvinced that's what Wrathion had been there for. Honestly, no one had any faith in his good nature? After everything he'd done for them. They were right, of course, but still.

"Yes," he said. "How is he, by the way?" Bolvar could hardly open his mouth before Wrathion went on because it wasn't a real question. "Better, I hope. But—about the dragonstone."

Bolvar snapped his mouth closed, inwardly adjusting himself. Wrathion decided he was taking too long to answer and tried to speak first.

"I'd like t—"

"No."

This time, it was Wrathion whose mouth shut. For a moment, his mask fractured and the shock bled through, but he was prompt to mend it. "You didn't even hear me out, Highlord," he said, slowly, concentrating on his polite tone.

"You want the stone," Bolvar said, "and I can't give it to you."

Wrathion laughed falsely. "Highlord—"

"It's not my choice to make," he assured, "but I must bring it back to Whiterun."

" _Why_?" Wrathion snapped, then instantly cursed himself. "No one in your city can even read it," he added, reining that careful tone back into place.

"Lady Katrana can."

The court wizard. Of course—the item she'd wanted him to bring back. How naive he'd been to miss that.

"And what does your court wizard believe she can do with it?" he asked.

"She hasn't said," Bolvar answered, and continued when Wrathion went to speak, "but things get done when you let Katrana Prestor have her way, and my orders are clear."

Wrathion winced irritably, glancing elsewhere. Nords and their orders. He took a moment to compose his thoughts, but Bolvar softened and he sensed it, eyeing the highlord again.

"But," he started, tentatively. His shoulders held for a moment, then relaxed with a sigh. "Perhaps she'll be willing to cooperate with you."

Wrathion pinched his eyebrows. "Return to Whiterun and bargain with her?" he said. "Is that what you're suggesting?"

"You're not getting the stone any other way," he warned.

Wrathion huffed, looking away again. This time his expression was careless and haughty, not warped with tangling arguments.

"Highlord," a guardsman spoke up; Wrathion hadn't even heard him approaching.

"Yes?" Bolvar answered.

"We're ready to go," the guardsman said. "The prophet would like to leave as soon as possible. The trip won't be good for Prince Anduin."

Bolvar nodded, eyeing Wrathion. He said nothing, still staring off into the distance and looking marginally sullen under all that fluffed up pride. It was as if he had resorted to pouting to get his way. Bolvar tried not to let his amusement show.

"I'll be there in just a moment," he said, eyeing the guardsman again, who nodded and hurried off.

"I don't suppose I could charm my way into a seat on that carriage," Wrathion joked, though he almost sounded serious.

Bolvar smiled. "I'm afraid not. But I'll give you a ride, if you're coming."

Wrathion screwed up his nose, refusing even now to meet the highlord's eyes. "Your beast is rude."

He laughed once. "She can be. Perhaps her friend told her about you."

The Dragonborn finally looked, his face flooding with confusion, until he remembered the mount he'd 'scared' before leaving Whiterun. He turned rigidly irritated and a bit defensive, but Bolvar only laughed again.

"Do you want the stone or not?" he said.

Wrathion stared a moment longer, then sighed exaggeratedly. "You'd think you would owe me more after everything I've done for you."

"We already bought you enough food for a king's feast," Bolvar teased.

Wrathion rolled his eyes, and gave up. "Right!" he barked back into town.

The agent materialized nearby no more than a moment later. Bolvar startled, which eased Wrathion's frustration quite well.

"Change of plans," he said, putting on that confident air once again. "We'll be going with Whiterun back to Dragonsreach."

Right didn't say anything, only nodding her understanding.

"Can you ride?" Bolvar asked.

"I can," Right said.

"Perhaps you'd prefer to lead a horse of your own then," he said, gesturing at the horses that were without riders. The abrupt reminder of the death that had plagued Bolvar's regiment made Wrathion's throat sour, which in turn irritated him because he was angry with the highlord. "And it'd be a little less hassle for us."

"Yes," Wrathion said, swallowing the nasty taste in his mouth. "Right and I will take a horse."

Bolvar nodded and started for the rest of the regiment. "Mount up, we're leaving."

Right didn't speak until the highlord was out of earshot. "Can't get enough of Whiterun, can you?"

Wrathion groaned loudly, throwing his head back. "At this rate, I wish Deathwing had leveled Dragonsreach instead. Come on," he grumbled, stomping after Bolvar. "The sooner we get this dragonstone, the sooner I can be done with this wretched hold."

Right smirked tightly to stifle a laugh, instead whistling idly as she followed after him. Wrathion thought it odd, but he was too irritated to address it. Right approached a horse and started to fuss with a saddle, when one of the soldiers cried out.

"Hey, there he is!"

Wrathion glanced back and spotted an unmanned horse trotting over. Right passed in front of him, her hand up, and made more whistling sounds. The horse strode up to her, nuzzling her hand with his nose. The soldier came up and took hold of his reins, glancing at Right.

"You're good with horses," he said.

Right shrugged. She took the rein and tugged, gently. "I'll take him, then."

The guardsman paused, then nodded and let go. She took up the saddle and hoisted herself in. The horse shuffled his hooves, snorting, but Right stroked his mane and whistled more songs to him. He settled. She glanced at Wrathion to find him staring, questioningly. She patted the space behind her and he came out of his bewilderment, reaching up so that she could hoist him into place behind her.

"Right," he said, hesitation heavy in his voice. "You didn't..."

"What," she asked, but it failed to sound like a question. She glanced back at him, and though her face was set in her usual expression, he didn't miss the glimmer in her eye.

She'd buttered up a horse to take after Whiterun left.

Wrathion couldn't help but grin, but he sloped his eyebrows anyway to mask his amusement with aggravation.

"I have enough problems with Whiterun," he chided. "I don't need theft added to the list."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she lied. "I'm just good with horses."

He rolled his eyes, laughing under his breath.

———Hearth Fire 2nd———

Deathwing hadn't gone far.

It was of some relief to Left. Descending the mountain, whose trail crawled down the peak in precisely the opposite direction of where the dragon had retreated, had taken valuable time. She'd made quick work of it, but it was only luck that allowed her to pick up Deathwing's trail. If he hadn't been dripping lava from those molten gashes, she wouldn't have had the chaotic wake of blazing wildlife to follow.

It was easily the dumbest luck she'd ever had, but she'd take it.

The fires had contained themselves, at least. It was hard for such destruction to catch and spread in a wet, cold terrain like Skyrim's. The dragon's trail was now just smoldering earth, as though the fires and the sky had made a trade—the flames' hot red for the night's deep black, exchanged as gifts for the dead plains and the sun that would arrive in the next hour or so.

She'd finally caught up to the dragon, his great wings carrying him much farther and much faster than Left's own feet could. She noted that she wasn't far from Fort Graymoor—somewhere west of it, she estimated. Perhaps a tad north. She had nearly stumbled into plain view of the beast, but fortunately had heard him release a great sigh first, unknowingly warning her to duck back behind the crop of rocks she was so close to climbing over.

She was quite far from him, still, but she could see well enough to note the pair of dead, half-eaten bandits strewn across the fields, enough out of the way so as to not plague the dragon's sight. Deathwing himself sat curled up against the side of a craggy hill, jutting from the plains like a small mountain. His scarred wings were wrapped over his body, concealing the glow of both his volcanic seams and whatever that strange white-gold wound in his chest was. Left assumed it was a wound, anyway—he certainly didn't seem to like it. He looked to be asleep, though she didn't bet on that. Resting, more like. The charred earth pooling around him was so stripped of grass that it couldn't even catch fire anymore, despite his ruptured body laying atop it.

Left only watched. Besides the occasional deep breath that she couldn't help but catch traces of frustration in, the dragon didn't move. She suspected he could, though, and that was aggravating. If he took off, it'd be difficult not only to pursue him, but also to get word back to Wrathion.

Assuming he wasn't sitting in the beast's gut right now, that was. Left growled at the thought.

Pursuing Deathwing as soon as possible had seemed so critical at the time. She believed it still was, though even if she'd missed the fires last night, the charred, blackened scar that was his wake would've guided her just fine. Leaving so promptly had given her no time to prepare anything more than a bread crumb trail for Wrathion and more likely Right to figure out. It was shoddy, and slow too, but it would just have to do.

Deathwing grumbled, and though Left had only dedicated a tiny sliver of her attention to other things, she was prompt to redirect it to the dragon instead. He lifted his large head, sluggishly, as if even that took some frustrating effort. He seemed to be assessing the golden gash in his chest. He raised one of his paws and almost touched the wound; the light pulsated and he retracted the claw. His piercing eyes flinched and he snorted, wholly annoyed, and perhaps pained.

"Kulaan," snarled his great voice, talons curling and angry smoke wafting from his lips.

Left narrowed her eyes, struggling to place the word. Right was, unfortunately, better at recalling the meanings of dragon words than Left herself was. The moment on the way up Bleak Falls had been a fluke at best, and even then, Left wasn't convinced Right hadn't just been making an extra fuss and remembered the word all along. Try as she might, though, Left couldn't unravel the word right then, but she logged it away in her mind as something to be reported later.

Deathwing laid down his head again, releasing another deep sigh. Left relaxed, sinking some as the tightness in her body unwound. If the dragon was going to leave, it didn't seem to be any immediate concern. She would wait for now, and keep an eye on the beast. Hopefully, she'd come up with something better than her trail as well. Something to get the Dragonborn his reports far more efficiently, but that would just have to be a secondary concern. Her priority, for the time being, was to make sure she didn't lose Deathwing, a task that was complicated by nature because—though the fires had sufficed well—flying dragons did not leave tracks in the dirt. Following Deathwing as she'd followed the Whiterun soldiers that had taken Wrathion would not be easy, but she would make do. She had to.

———Hearth Fire 2nd———

Fiery eyes lit up against the blackness of Anduin's mind.

He started, jerking out of what hadn't been sleep so much as a deep daze. He felt a cold sweat beading on his forehead, threatening to trickle down. He took a shaken breath, as if hoping to deter it, and clutched the amulet around his neck. The crackling and groaning of cobble and wood flooded his ears, offering something besides frigid silence to listen to. Skyrim rolled past the carriage window, the sky masked in white clouds that mirrored the snow on the bounding plains stretched across the heart of Whiterun Hold.

Anduin relished the sight. He took in the patches of dulled green grass, the tears in the overcast where bright blue peeked through. Even the different colors of the horses that flanked the carriage were soothing, because at least it wasn't endless spectrums of dreary, stony _gray_.

The caverns of Bleak Falls flashed in his mind, and for a moment he was scared he'd woken into them and out of a dream. The images disappeared as quickly as they'd come, though, leaving Anduin in the carriage where he could soak in the open, endless world around him. No more cavern walls. Skyrim rolled out for miles, and miles, with grass and snow and mountains, and somewhere beyond it all, curling seas. The cold was not static, but dancing on the wind. The sun acted as the only source of light needed to vanquish any darkness.

Bleak Falls was rolling away from him, yet he still felt trapped in that little alcove with Captain Taylor.

Anduin clenched his teeth. He still felt that little ember in the bottom of his chest. The one that had once been a great flame, driving him to protect the captain. It was the only thing that'd kept him going—which was ironic, perhaps, because it was his devotion to healing Taylor that had distracted him from tending to his own leg, now blackened and dead and killing him.

It wasn't even like there'd been a tradeoff worthy of such ready disregard for his own injuries. Captain Taylor had saved him, barely, then succumbed to all the gashes and burns and broken pieces that plagued him. And Deathwing—

Anduin heard that terrible foreign word, remembering when the dragon had called him that after tearing the alcove apart. He shut his eyes tight and shivered, willing the ugly sound away like it was some rabid dog he hoped to scare off. He couldn't escape it. It plagued his sleep, and Wrathion—

He held his breath. The Dragonborn hadn't meant any harm, that was obvious in how quickly his confident front shattered before Anduin's eyes, replaced with panic and guilt that was eventually locked away under the same self-assured seal for his own protection more than the prince's. He hadn't known, and Anduin tried to assure himself there was no way he could've.

It didn't help though. Not really. It was just another voice to echo through his mind when his mental barriers slipped, for even a second, and the ugly darkness of Bleak Falls claimed him once more.

But at least the awkward small talk, the return of his amulet and the tiny glimmer of something deeper than guilt were all footholds that allowed Anduin to _believe_ he hadn't meant anything malicious with the ugly, horrible word. Even if it didn't make him feel _better_.

That was a still step up from it making him feel worse.

The fiery eyes flickered in Anduin's mind again. He rubbed his own eyes furiously, scrubbing the damned sight away.

"Anduin?"

"I'm fine," Anduin lied automatically. He sighed, forcing his trembling hands to lay in his lap. He couldn't will himself to meet Velen's eyes, though he knew the prophet was looking at him, worrying as he had the previous four times Anduin had said the very same lie. Each time, it became more of an impulse, a simple muscle memory of his voice.

Velen knew better, though. Anduin knew he did.

The prophet didn't say anything, for Anduin had made it clear, in a dozen beginnings of conversations just like this one, that he didn't want to bring it all out. Not yet. Not now. He wanted to bury it, deep inside himself, and any attempt to draw it from his core just made him afraid, and it was like he was in Bleak Falls again.

So Velen didn't pry. The prophet glanced down at Anduin's leg, wrapped thoroughly in gauze and mounted on a platform carefully placed in the floor of the carriage, all with the intent of minimizing how much the limb moved. The festering wounds had made even the flesh beyond the burns discolor and die, but Velen's healing had stopped the poisoned blood from spreading much farther. He hoped to save Anduin's knee when they reached Whiterun, as long as the spell held up that long. He only wished he could salvage the entire leg, but that was wishful thinking. Velen doubted he ever could've saved the whole limb, even if he'd managed to reach the damage moments after it'd happened.

He watched Anduin stare out the window, utterly lost in the expansive plains beyond. Velen had never seen him so distant, yet found himself unable to be surprised. He could only hope that Dragonsreach would help him find himself again.

It had hardly crossed Velen's mind that Anduin hadn't been to Dragonsreach in months. His studies in the Imperial City had been worthwhile to him—they felt so long ago now, for it seemed only years should have had the power to change a child as much as these two weeks had changed Anduin. Velen almost worried Dragonsreach would feel as foreign as anything else, but pushed the concern back quickly. Varian Wrynn was there, as were many others. They would help, as would time and the chance to finally heal.

"What happens now?"

He was startled to hear Anduin speak. The prince's voice was barely there, as it had been since Velen saw him again. His eyes remained fixed on the window, but his brow was pinched in concentration and dread.

Velen nearly spoke, but it was as if Anduin knew what he was about to ask.

"To Deathwing," he clarified. "What do we do?"

" _We_ focus on your recovery," Velen said, emphasizing his voice, yet it remained gentle. "Your father and the rest will deal with Deathwing."

Anduin didn't say anything else, but his face twisted, faintly, showing only the smallest traces of the overwhelming sadness crashing like waves within him. He didn't know where Deathwing had gone after fleeing the prince's attack—which had saved him and the Dragonborn, thankfully, but now he was _gone_. And this time, not even Anduin knew where he was. He had hoped to welcome such a feeling, but it only made him worry. _Where_ was Deathwing? How long until another city suffered as Helgen had?

A dragging, aching sound found him in his thoughts. Anduin tensed, struggling to name the noise, until the distinct clank of the great locks on Whiterun's front gates sounded. Anduin shifted, his hands rushing to the windowsill as he looked out of the carriage. He'd become so wrapped up in his mind that he didn't even realize they had ascended the road leading up to the hilltop city. Blue and gold flags sailed in the wind, perched on the watch stations dotting the city's outer wall, bright and safe. The permanent chill of Bleak Falls, that had crusted to him like ice, began to fall away at last.

He was _home_.

A motion caught his attention. Anduin glanced down, still out the window, where one of the mounted soldiers was flagging him. She gestured at the curtains, and after a moment, Anduin realized she wanted him to close them. Perhaps so that no one would see him inside, and thus ignite the city with talk. Whiterun still probably thought their prince was long dead, after all. Something darkened in the pit of Anduin's stomach, but he obliged the soldier's signal and pulled the curtain over the window. Without saying a word, Velen puzzled it out and closed the opposite curtain.

They sat together in darkness, but it was far from quiet. Whiterun was alive around them, bursting with banter and clattering and so much sound it made Anduin dizzy. It felt unreal, and he almost thought he should be scared of it—commotion hadn't been a good thing for him in two weeks, after all. But instead, it was a familiar backdrop of noise. He recognized this place and its buzz. The cold continued to melt away from him and he closed his eyes, focusing on the loud city. Smells wafted in despite the obstacles the carriage provided. He smelled flowers and perfumes and oils and food—so much _food_. Breads, meats, stews. He could picture a long dining table in Dragonsreach, blanketed with it all.

His heart swelled. _Dragonsreach_. It'd been so long since he'd even imagined the great palace, let alone stood in it. The thought of it being as close as it was now was numbing, almost as if it couldn't be real. But here he was, on the brink of it, and he felt so warm and safe that his barriers slipped,

and the cold snuck through and he heard it.

_" Kulaan."_

He started, gasping. The cold sweat returned. His eyes shot toward the window and, forgetting, he tugged the curtain aside to look out, afraid it would be Skyrim's plains and not the city, afraid he'd woken from his stupor this way over and over, like some kind of sick, looping nightmare.

But the warmth of Whiterun's streets chased the chill away and he relaxed, if only just.

Plate clanked about outside. A moment more of staring out the window and Anduin realized the carriage had stopped, and that this was the square at the foot of Dragonsreach. He saw the Temple of Kynareth, the sight of it an utter relief to him. Craning his neck, he tried to see the Gildergreen—a great tree planted in Whiterun's earliest days. He knew where it was, having adored the tree, but the dead husk he found in its place shocked him.

"The Gildergreen," he wheezed. It felt like his heart was clenched in a claw.

Velen looked at him and frowned. "Oh, yes," he started, the sadness seemingly familiar to him. "I'm told it was struck by lightning while we were away and has withered as a result."

Anduin couldn't bring himself to look away from the tree. Once great and beautiful, it looked like only a shadow of its former self now. His leg burned, reminding him he had something in common with it. The thought disturbed him. It seemed as though Helgen were like some kind of catalyst, and now that it was gone, everything else just seemed to be unraveling too.

He clenched his jaw and shook the thought away. He couldn't afford to let that kind of thinking consume him. Bleak Falls was only a memory now. He was home. Things would get better. Perhaps he'd even be able to help restore the Gildergreen. The idea was consoling, at least.

The door opened, startling Anduin from his thoughts. A pair of guardsmen stood outside, nodding in respect to the pair inside.

"We're here to move you to the Temple, your highness," one of the guards said, her voice clear and confident in her task.

He wasn't sure how, but he hadn't thought that of course he'd be going to the Temple of Kynareth to be healed. Seeing Dragonsreach again would have to wait, though the thought weighed heavy on his shoulders.

A tightness coiled up in his stomach, realizing. "My father—"

"Is on his way, your highness," the woman assured. "It'll be easier if I carry you."

Anduin relaxed some and nodded. Velen stood, hunched because of the low carriage ceiling, and shifted so he was sitting next to Anduin instead of across from him. He helped the prince navigate around his wounded leg to reach the guardswoman, who was as strong as any nord, able to hoist Anduin up from under his back and knees—though perhaps it helped that he was so underweight. His leg burned at the movement, but he bit back any sound that tried to slip out.

Whiterun felt brighter outside. The pale overcast made it look cold, but the sense of security that the city's walls gave him seemed to keep him warm just fine. He thought of Bolvar and looked around, spotting him quickly, talking to—was that the Dragonborn? Anduin hadn't realized he came all the way back to Whiterun with the regiment. He wasn't sure why the thought hadn't crossed his mind, as it was his father who sent him in the first place. Who was the woman with him, though? Anduin didn't recognize her at all. She wasn't wearing Whiterun colors, so she wasn't a soldier he simply didn't recognize. Though she did hold the posture of one, alert and guarded. And she was clearly with the Dragonborn. Did he have guards of his own? Anduin found he couldn't remember whether or not he'd heard something like that.

Bolvar glanced his way and smiled warmly, offering a wave. Anduin relaxed, forcing a small smile in turn. The woman carrying him spun away, disrupting his thoughts, as she took him toward the Temple of Kynareth. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw her partner helping Velen make his way as well.

Something weighed down on Anduin, but to his relief, it didn't feel dark and ugly like most of his heavy feelings. It felt like exhaustion, but also not. Still, it made his eyes drift closed, and he settled in the guardswoman's arms, too overwhelmed by the fatigue to think it embarrassing. When his awareness came back around, he was already inside the Temple, being set gingerly on one of the altars where the sick or injured were tended to. Two priests had been waiting just to the side, and came forward the moment the guardswoman backed away to give them room.

They stripped the gauze from his leg with great care, striving not to hurt him or damage the limb further. Anduin felt the air on the wounds, like wind whistling across open windows, but he dared not look at the damage, cherishing too much the fact that he hadn't seen it in so long that the memory of it was blurry in his head. He couldn't shake out the wringing tightness of his muscles, though, and his body slowly began to ache with the tension.

The priests treated the burns; Anduin could tell because a mercifully relieving cold seeped into the wounds, numbing the pain until it was just the rigid weight of the dead limb he could feel. A third priest appeared and whispered something to one of the ones working on Anduin's leg. He couldn't hear what the priest said, but she nodded and gestured at her partner. They began to cover his leg, hurriedly, and it took him a moment to figure out why.

The Temple doors swung open with enough force to jolt Anduin. He craned his head to try and name the cause, but it announced itself before his vision could even clear from the shock.

" _Anduin_."

Anduin's heart leapt into his throat and his eyes stung. "Father—!"

Forgetting himself, Anduin tried to sit up on his elbows. One of the priests was quick to set a hand on his chest, keeping him on his back. But Varian, with his steel boots thundering across the tiled floor, hurried to Anduin's bedside and dropped to his knees, taking his son's pale face in his great, _blissfully_ warm hands.

"Anduin," Varian said again, quiet—weak, if Anduin didn't know better than to use such a word to describe his own father.

The prince's eyes rolled closed, soaking in the heat and familiarity of Varian's hands. He wrapped his own around his father's wrists, squeezing, but the gesture was feeble. Varian rubbed Anduin's cheek with a thumb, with noises of relief and sadness fused together so thoroughly, yet they were so stark sitting in the same breaths. Anduin could feel his father moving, looking him over, and for a moment, the king's sadness won out.

"Gods," he mumbled, his voice nearly lost now. He moved one of his hands to brush it through Anduin's hair, and it felt indescribably nice. "Thank the Divines you're safe."

Anduin flinched, a tiny hiccup slipping free. "Father," he managed, more breath than voice. His body trembled, and he didn't know when it'd started. "I missed you—"

Varian bent down to kiss his forehead, his hand still combing through Anduin's dulled blonde hair. A spurt of strength found Anduin's hands, allowing him to squeeze his father's just a bit harder as another shudder escaped him. Varian pressed another kiss to his temple, near his left ear.

"I've got you," he said, almost soundlessly, but he was so close Anduin still heard. The tension spilled from his body so fast he shuddered.

For a while, they said nothing else. Anduin hardly could through his shut throat, and Varian was never so good with words. The silence sufficed fine. The warmth in his father's hands was beyond enough, and suddenly he didn't need to see Dragonsreach right now.

He was home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [dragon translations](http://textuploader.com/xp6b)
> 
> oh my god writing parent/child scenes is so awkward and hard i hope it's not awful??? jeez. funny how this chapter & the most recent one i wrote were both a royal ( _har har_ ) pain in the ass to write.
> 
> nothing ever goes wrathion's way, does it?


	14. Lovaas Do Monahven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **content warnings:** mentions of amputation, death and burns

Chapter 14: Lovaas Do Monahven  
"Song of the Mother Wind"

———Hearth Fire 2nd———

Bolvar watched as Anduin was hauled into the Temple of Kynareth, a great relief warming him, but almost as great a worry threatening to ice over. Though the prince was safe now within Whiterun, there was still the matter of his leg. Bolvar took a deep, steadying breath, and felt a little better for it. He looked on until Anduin disappeared into the Temple, then paused, closing his eyes and sending a brief prayer to the Divines before resuming his previous business.

He turned, and looked upon the Dragonborn standing before him. Wrathion was distracted with those that retreated into the Temple for only a split second longer, then met Bolvar's eyes and put aside whatever thought he'd been in the middle of, reclaiming that confidence Bolvar was beginning to think unshakeable.

"You're still hoping to get your dragonstone out of this?" the highlord asked.

Wrathion scoffed beneath a smirk. "That stone is the only reason I'm still here, Highlord," he assured.

Bolvar only nodded, then turned toward the steps leading up to Dragonsreach. "Come with me, then. It's Lady Katrana you'll have to convince."

Wrathion followed, Right not two paces behind. He didn't miss Nord-King Wrynn himself practically stampede past, four guardsmen in tow, no doubt headed for the Temple. The king hadn't even seen Wrathion as he thundered by, his guards struggling to keep up, though Wrathion considered that a relief more than anything else. Let Wrynn have the moment with his long-lost son; the Dragonborn had far more pressing matters at hand. Bolvar pushed open one of the two towering doors leading into the main hall of Dragonsreach, ushering Wrathion and Right inside before following after them. Wrathion had only seen the inside of the keep briefly once before, a couple days ago, but he hadn't stayed long, finding the ruckus of guardsmen flocking around to be too annoying on his already exhausted nerves. He'd waited for Wrynn's 'resources' outside.

Bolvar resumed the lead, traveling to the center of the great hall, which hosted King Wrynn's royal throne on the wall opposite of the entrance, and the great dragon's skull above that. Wrathion scoffed out a laugh at the ancient relic, perhaps more pleased with it than necessary.

"Is that the same one from the folktale?" he asked with a bit too much enthusiasm.

Bolvar glanced at him, confused, until he realized it was the dragon head Wrathion was looking at. "I guess I'm not surprised you've heard the legend about Windsor."

Wrathion hummed. "A knight travels to Mount Anthor and defeats a great dragon, who lives imprisoned in Whiterun's palace for the rest of her days. Such is where the name 'Dragonsreach' comes from." He grinned snidely. "Or, that's the noble version, but I hear there were some scathing accounts as well."

"Windsor was a good man," Bolvar said, squinting.

Wrathion glanced at him, raising an eyebrow but grinning still. "Did you know him?" That was a ridiculous and entirely rhetorical question, of course, since the battle at Mount Anthor took place three eras prior.

The highlord restrained most of a sigh, then turned away and slipped through a large archway. Wrathion snickered and followed him through, where the room beyond it was cluttered with tables and shelves, which in turn were cluttered with enough stray reagents, crystals and parchment to tell Wrathion, at a glance, that he was in a wizard's domain.

"Katrana," Bolvar called into the room, leaning with a hand on the table not a few feet from the archway.

Wrathion continued to eye the room, noting a large map of Skyrim tacked to a stand on his right, punctured with colored pins that had been moved and adjusted as many as a dozen times, as though their proper arrangement was uncertain to whoever organized them.

"Highlord," the court wizard's voice greeted. Wrathion glanced up as Katrana swept into the room from a door on the back wall. She glimpsed him and her smile only widened, though did not reach her eyes. "And the Dragonborn. I'm pleased to see you decided to return to Dragonsreach after all."

Wrathion smiled as falsely as Katrana did. "I needed to speak with you, actually."

"Me?" the court wizard feigned surprise and a trace of humility.

Bolvar shifted his weight, and unearthed the dragonstone from his armor, offering it to Katrana. "Here it is."

Katrana looked first at his eyes, then at the stone tablet. Her own gaze lit up; she took the dragonstone and brushed her sharp fingertips across the surface, memorizing the crevices beneath her touch. She turned the stone over, and only just began to read the words in her own mind when Wrathion spoke.

"'Here lie our fallen lords'."

Katrana glanced at him and only smiled. "You've read it, then."

Wrathion, successfully, resisted any urge to wince. He wanted her to read the rest aloud. If he could not retrieve that stone, he at least wanted to know that name he'd foolishly forgotten. His hollow smile remained. "I've read many things written in the dragon language. I'm curious—you said you've studied dragons longer than I, is that right?"

"It is," Katrana answered proudly.

"Then, surely, you can read it too." He held his voice steady, though he worried he'd been too obvious. The court wizard was terribly sharp. Sharp and secretive, he knew, though he never _did_ figure out why it always felt like she was hiding something.

"You're testing me?" she said coyly, her smile perking a hair.

"Curious!" he repeated, feigning excitement. "It's quite rare I meet someone as educated on the subject. It's a bit lonely, isn't it?"

She hummed once, amused. Wrathion didn't know what to make of it, and it both annoyed and unsettled him.

With her eyes still trained on him, Katrana spoke: "'Here lie our fallen lords'," she said, and only then did she turn to speak slower and truly read the dragonstone, "'until the roaring power of Neltharion revives them'."

Wrathion's mind rung with the name. Neltharion! It was so familiar now, like—well, like a reoccurring nightmare, if he was being honest, given that it was a _dragon's_ name. And a powerful one at that, if his Voice—his 'roaring power'—could resurrect the draugr's 'fallen lords'.

"What an interesting tablet," Katrana mused, flipping the stone over again. She gave it another stroke of her hand, but this one was slow, lost in a sense of confusion. Yet Wrathion saw more than that, but he couldn't name it and it bothered him. "I wonder what it means."

 _Do you?_ Wrathion wanted to retort, but he resisted. He had no interest in sharing Anduin Wrynn's admittedly curious theory with the court wizard, and he hoped she'd never think to ask him.

"Dragonborn," Katrana said, meeting Wrathion's eyes again. "You said you wanted to speak with me."

He straightened purposefully. "Yes, actually—about that very dragonstone."

Her smile perked, and he felt like she knew, all along, that's what he was here for. It, like many things regarding Katrana Prestor, annoyed him. "Do you know something about it?"

"Unfortunately, no," he lied, but his voice didn't betray as much. It was as seamless as the honest truth. "But I doubt, perhaps as much as you, that the draugr would name such a relic ' _dragonstone_ ' if it had nothing to do with their ancient masters."

She nodded, her lips parting a bit in understanding. "Do you wish to leave here with it, then?"

"When you're through with it, of course," he assured, and if he didn't despise her as much as he did, he might scorn the trace of malice that slipped into his voice.

"Mm," was the only response she offered at first. She looked at the dragonstone again, admiring it in her hands, though that odd confusion remained in her eyes and fingers. "You'll be waiting for quite some time, Dragonborn. I intend to study this dragonstone thoroughly."

That was precisely what he'd hoped _not_ to hear. "Perhaps," he started, taking only a fraction of a moment to consider his words, "it would be of more use out in Skyrim with me. I might make some sense of it on my journey—like many things draconic I've come across in the past."

Katrana laughed behind closed lips. "You'll have far less time on your hands with dragons reappearing from thin air."

"And you must have better things to do than scour an outdated rock for answers," Wrathion said. "I, at least, am used to busying myself with 'getting my hands dirty', let's say."

"I hear most of your time is spent in draconic graveyards," she said.

For a moment, Wrathion's smile flickered away. There was something dark in that tone, and he couldn't explain what it was or what it meant. It was infuriating, how clearly she hid something. Like a sheet, just long enough that he still couldn't make out what was underneath.

"Forgive me, Dragonborn," she said falsely, tucking the dragonstone to her chest and crossing her arms around it. "The orders from my king are clear. I will do whatever I can to uncover the mysterious return of the dragons, and until I've ruled this tablet out, I must assume it bears importance to my research." She smiled with an empty kindness and ran a finger up and down a necklace draped around her neck. "You'll just have to make do without it."

More things he didn't want to hear. Despite himself, he felt his shoulders fall. Something suffocating stirred in his chest. He winced, as though struck in the eye by an obtrusive light. He opened his mouth to continue their forcibly light argument, but the words were stuck, as if each one were ensnared on his tongue and drawn back down his throat. He squinted harder. Katrana smirked, and he lost the will to keep running in circles with her.

Slowly, he took a breath that straightened his back, and sighed with a pointed disappointment. "I understand," he said, lying, and bowed his head. "Should you find it no use to you, however... well, you found me once."

Her smile stretched. "I will be sure to send it your way when I've exhausted it."

The stifled sensation in Wrathion's chest worsened. Irritated, he ignored it. He looked up again, his smile insincere. He made no attempt to pretend he believed her. "I can't wait around, however. As you know, there's still a dragon on the loose."

"There is."

"I must take my leave then," he said, whirling toward the archway. Right couldn't believe it, glancing between him and Katrana before she composed herself and followed behind him. "Good luck to you, Lady Prestor. Highlord."

"Thank you, Dragonborn," Bolvar said, nodding.

Wrathion's smirk perked, and then he swept out of the room, leaving the pair behind. He had no further use for Dragonsreach, so he went straight for the great doors back into the city. Right pursued, and it was only at the bottom of the steps, as they passed a great dead tree, that she spoke.

"You're not giving up that easy." It wasn't a question.

"Of course not," Wrathion snapped hollowly. He scowled out at nothing, surprised _himself_ that he'd relented. He struggled to explain why he had. "But I don't like that mage. There's something... slimy about her. It unnerves me." He shivered for effect. "I don't want to spend another moment in a room with her, especially not an unnecessary one."

"'Unnecessary'," Right repeated.

"She wasn't going to hand over the dragonstone," he said, annoyed. Right didn't understand why he'd surrendered, and if he was honest with himself, he didn't either. The thought was unsettling. "And much more prodding only would've brought my supposed ignorance into question," he reasoned, both to her and himself. He hadn't _given up_ , as Right had put it—he was being cautious. This was a delicate process, wasn't it? Of course it was. He frowned.

"So," Right goaded.

" _So_ ," Wrathion said, quickly grinning, "I'm going to equip myself for our impending leave. You, Right, are going to round up two—no," he paused, glancing skyward as he thought, " _four_ agents to keep an eye on the court wizard. Anything Katrana discovers, I want reported to me. _Immediately_."

"Done."

"Good. Oh." He pounded a fist into his open hand. "Also, send four more to track down Left. She's hunting Deathwing, isn't she?"

"She is."

"That deserves some breathing room! Enough forces to keep me updated without risk of losing their charge. Make it happen."

"At once."

He hummed and rolled his shoulders, satisfied. "That's all. Meet me at the front gate in an hour. By then, my agents will be on their way, and I'll have something to wear besides this ratty tunic."

Right crooked an eyebrow. "You don't have enough money for any substantial gear."

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong," he chimed, pleased, then doubled over and plucked the golden Whiterun dagger out of his boot, twirling it to show it off to her.

Right squinted. "And you scolded me for theft."

"I didn't _steal_ it," he said, rolling his eyes. "It was a 'gift' for my cooperation."

"It's hideous."

"I _know_. That's why I'm going buy something suitable with the gold it fetches me."

Right only hummed. Wrathion waved her off with a dismissive hand.

"Hurry up! I'm sick of this city."

" _Right away_."

Wrathion flinched and turned to chide her for the pun, but she was already gone. He grumbled from the pit of his throat. _Jokester,_ some annoyed part of him sneered. He spun back around, twirling the dagger in his fingers as he made his way down to the markets. He recalled there being a stall lined with weapons there. Good. _They'd_ surely appreciate the ugly knife. He smirked, pleased despite his failed negotiation with Katrana. A song hung on his voice as he walked.

" _Believe, believe, the Dragonborn comes..._ "

———Hearth Fire 2nd———

Katrana had been prompt to shoo Bolvar out of the room following Wrathion's departure. Like many in Dragonsreach, the highlord was not unaccustomed to the way Katrana preferred to work: alone, in her dimmed study, where she was free to think aloud and, more importantly, exert her frustration where she and everyone else pretended the keep couldn't see or hear.

So he left swiftly, because he, like Katrana, knew it was critical that she get to work finding some sense or purpose for the dragonstone. But unlike Bolvar, Katrana already had _plenty_ of ideas about it.

She considered regretting giving Wrathion the second half of the translation—obviously when he'd read it, he hadn't read it very carefully or didn't have time to digest it before something distracted him. Understandable, having been in the middle of a crypt crawling with dragons and draugr. While she hadn't blindly fallen into his trick, she _had_ decided to throw him a bone. No, she decided against regretting. She doubted he knew everything about it, even with the second half of the translation. Even if he did—even if he knew one of her favorite things about this stone tablet—he hadn't had time to even remember the name on the inscription. He couldn't possibly have memorized the other side, if he even knew about the thrilling, fascinating carving there.

Katrana smirked at the thought, flipping the dragonstone over in her hands. She traced her fingers along the marks, unrealized by Bolvar and perhaps even the Dragonborn. Only she saw the crevices and cracks for what they were:

A map. Of _Skyrim_.

It was why Bolvar unconsciously could form the pattern when Katrana had asked him to picture the dragonstone. He'd seen Skyrim's map a thousand times, though never on an ancient stone slab such as this. He hadn't realized, yet deep down in a place secret to himself, he _had_ realized. It was precisely why Katrana needed to see the stone for herself, in the flesh.

Her pointer and middle fingers danced along the engraved map, until she stopped them on a curious mark she knew what was. Little stars, made up of four points, dotted all along the stone. The amount of dust that had clogged the careful designs even as she held it in her hands now had blurred them, and to anyone who wasn't looking, the stars looked more like dents received from centuries of occasionally dropping onto pointed surfaces, such as the jagged floor of an ancient tomb.

But they were purposeful, and _crucial_.

"Here," she hummed, tapping the star under her fingers, "lie our fallen lords."

At long last, a break in her research. A document, entire eras old, recording every dragon burial site in Skyrim. Precisely the sort of miracle she'd needed just two days ago, when she'd proposed her theory to King Varian. Oh, how glad she was she'd waited for the regiment's return. Her search for these graves had been tireless and offered little reward for her effort, but now, all that stopped her was herself, stalling to _ooh_ and _aah_ at the tablet in her hands.

She pursed her lips. No, not only that. She would put a bit of time in pretending to unravel the dragonstone. Give Varian time to adjust to the safe return of Prince Anduin before worrying him with her own leave.

Her eyebrows pinched for a moment. That's right, the prince was home. She glanced at the drawn curtains hiding her window, and paced back to them, prying them away. She could make out the tall rooftops of the Temple of Kynareth from her window, adorned with dragon heads to scare off birds from landing there. She supposed she'd be seeing the little prince again soon. Did he know anything noteworthy? It couldn't hurt to ask. He did have a tendency to pester her about her knowledge well before Helgen, evidently curious.

Although, she wondered if such bothersome visits would resume _after_ Helgen. Not for a time, at least. Not if what Bolvar had told her and Varian about his trauma, through her blessed little dwemer device, was true.

She frowned only out of slight annoyance. She'd have to be delicate when she asked. Fortunately, it would be no lie to the prince that she very much did need the information. She had orders from his own father, after all.

But all that assumed Anduin Wrynn's luck would last long enough to rid him of that burdensome, poisonous leg of his. He'd made it this far, and was at better odds than ever in Velen's hands. And he was infuriatingly lucky, Katrana had long since known.

It didn't matter much either way. If he lived, she'd ask. If not...

She glanced at the tablet in her hands. Her smile returned.

If not, she would have her answers soon regardless.

———Hearth Fire 2nd———

Right leaned back on one of four stone posts that anchored the small bridge to either side of a water canal, just feet from Whiterun's front gate. She'd been waiting here for the better part of an hour, staring idly at the busy streets surrounding her. The sound of a smithy banged and churned behind her. Some Whiterun guards holed up at the barracks across the street would eye her periodically, but with a sure lack of suspicion. Perhaps they thought her some tourist, waiting to meet up with the rest of her friends.

Close enough, she figured.

Contacting Blacktalons to send out on Wrathion's orders had been effortless, the entire task taking no more than twenty minutes. His agents were everywhere, though picking them out of the general crowd would be a chore for an untrained eye. For Right, it took no time. She forwarded the order to spy on Katrana Prestor to one of the Blacktalons stationed in Whiterun; the local agent would be better familiar with which operatives would have the easiest time blending in at Dragonsreach should complications occur, such as being noticed. Right refrained from pointing out that, if they _were_ noticed, they'd also be fired if Wrathion found out about it.

And four Blacktalons had been ordered to pursue Left. It wouldn't be a difficult task. Time consuming, more than likely, but Left knew better than to simply disappear where even the Dragonborn's agents couldn't find her. And once she had backup, receiving reports regarding Deathwing would be all the easier with room to send messengers back and forth.

A small, near unnoticeable frown twitched in the corners of Right's mouth. Every once in a while, the beginning of a question would form in her mind. Why weren't they going after Deathwing themselves? Right had expected Wrathion to be utterly impatient after Bleak Falls, and for immediate, direct action to follow. Instead, he wanted to meet with his 'old friend', who Right still hadn't worked out who was, though she had some guesses.

He had a plan, that was certain, but what was keeping him from chasing Deathwing down? It was difficult to ask him such things without aggravating him. He didn't like to be doubted—not after three years of it, anyway. Maybe not even before that, but Right couldn't account for that long ago. It wasn't quite doubt that prompted the question, but confusion. He'd probably take them the same way though.

But Wrathion was smart. She knew as much. So if this was his uncharacteristic, roundabout plan, it had the potential to work. Not perfectly—none of his plans ever went without a hiccup, in her experience—but it'd work. Probably.

Conversation caught her attention. Meaningless—an exchange of chores between two civilians. It wouldn't have perked Right's interest, except that she'd heard one of the girls' names and, for a split second, thought it'd been hers. The agent gave the faintest shudder to unwind her tensed body. Whiterun still made her just a little uneasy, even after all this time.

"Good! You're here."

Right looked up to see Wrathion, refurbished, marching toward her. The only hint of gold on him was that looping ring in his left ear; the dagger, thankfully, was gone. His armor—leather again, naturally—wasn't as nice as what he'd had before, but it was dark and durable. Right deemed it more appropriate for battle.

"Aw," she said, her voice positively deadpan and lacking any actual remorse. "I'm going to miss your flashy getup."

"As am I," he said, half-amused and half-not, "but it was torn to ribbons, and I don't much want to see the same happen to _me_."

"Consider plate."

" _No_."

She smirked and stood from the bridge's banister. "Your agents have been shipped out as requested," she said, taking care not to speak loud enough for the barracks to hear. "The court wizard will be under your surveillance within the day."

"And Left?"

"That'll take a bit more time," she said. "She would've left a trail to follow, but it'll be discreet. Hard to pick up. I doubt we'll be hearing much report on that for a while."

Wrathion clucked his tongue, but didn't seem surprised. "I suppose that settles that, then."

"We off to meet your friend?"

Wrathion glanced at her, crooking an eyebrow. She was well aware he knew what the question was really about. She hadn't tried to hide her confusion about why they were meeting old buddies instead of pursuing Left.

And like she'd guessed, he didn't seem happy about it.

"Yes," he said pointedly. "I believe he'll be able to... _assist_ me."

'He'. That narrowed it down. "'Assist' you."

"Mm," he affirmed, if vaguely.

She raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to elaborate beyond that. He smirked, irritated.

"Are you questioning me again, Right?"

There it was. "No, you're just off."

"' _Off_ '," he stressed the word.

"I should've realized it when you came out of that barrow with rags in place of your leather," she said. "But you looked healthy and I was thinking about other things. You struggled though, didn't you?"

Wrathion bristled, not unlike an offended bird. "Deathwing was..." He paused, for longer than he would've, while he worked out his answer; " _more_ of a challenge than I gave him credit for."

Considering the dragon nearly killed him.

Right only nodded, listening, but scrutinizing every word. It made Wrathion even more defensive.

"And I might have wasted my Voice with draugr," he huffed. His jaw shifted back and forth while he worded the next thought in his head. "I may have been a bit..."

"Careless?"

" _Excited_."

Right hummed. Wrathion sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose in one hand, the other ending up on his hip.

"Anyway, it was _fine_ ," he lied, and Right saw straight through it. "But that doesn't mean I couldn't," he rolled the word around on his tongue, " _benefit_ from some preparation. My friend will help with that."

"You're not going to tell me who your friend _is_ , are you."

He smirked, gladly taking the foothold back into some sense of control over the conversation. "What's the fun in that? You tracked me down, didn't you? You can figure it out!"

Right made a face. It only served to lift his mood further.

"You'll see soon enough," he consoled as he moved past her. "But we really must get going! It's a long way to the Rift."

"The _Rift_ ," Right repeated, surprised.

"Where else!" Wrathion beamed. "Now, I really would like to get there befo—"

The words were knocked out of his mouth as the earth shuddered, hard, underneath their feet. Wrathion struck out his arms to hold his balance; Right, of course, hardly moved except to glance up for some explanation. Commotion flared from the surrounding civilians as well as the guards in the barracks, but Wrathion quickly lost sight of what they were saying as something carried over the quaking air:

" **Dov Ah Kiin**!"

His eyes shot up to the sky, a cold fear clenching around his chest. Dragons? It was the only explanation that made any semblance of sense, but the sky was clear of any winged splotches. And the voice that had called out— _Shouted_ out—it didn't carry that same, winding depth that dragons who spoke from their serpentine necks did. There was something mortal to the sound.

The shaking stopped shortly after the voice disappeared, only a memory in Wrathion's mind now. Had he even really heard it? He found Right's gaze, and her expression asked a clear question:

_Did you hear that?_

"What was that?" a guardsman piped up, grounding Wrathion to reality again.

"An earthquake?" another suggested. "Or maybe..."

"Check the outposts," the first guard said. "Just in case."

Wrathion and Right remained where they were, even as several suits of blue and gold hurried past. Wrathion glanced at them, marching off to check for dragons, surely. Their frightened voices had made it clear enough what they were afraid the phenomenon had been. When he looked at Right again, she'd composed herself.

"Well," she said, a slight tightness to her voice before she cleared her throat. "Aren't you just the center of attention lately."

He smirked and laughed once, but it was all a hollow gesture. He nearly wanted to remain in Whiterun, just until the guardsmen confirmed there wasn't a dragon lumbering about somewhere out of sight. He dismissed the idea and straightened himself at last, righting his leather vest.

"No matter," he said clearly, his closed eyes allowing him to focus on steadying his voice. "We're still headed for the Rift."

"Nothing changes?" Right asked.

"Nothing changes," he agreed. He frowned, wholly unnerved, but he kept the feeling in the pit of his stomach where it couldn't be seen. "Let's go."

There was a split second of hesitation before Right nodded, passing him to lead the way. Wrathion scowled, irritated with the gesture, but too busy mulling over what had happened privately to call her out just yet. He followed her, silently, past the front gate and down the winding road leading out to the plains of Whiterun Hold. At the fork where they'd begin east, Right stopped. Wrathion, scouring the sky for a blur of black scales, nearly ran into her. He staggered around her and curled his lip.

"What," he said curtly, sparing a glance over the area. There was nothing of interest, just an expanse of farmland or wild fields. "What are we waiting for?"

"You want to get to the Rift quickly," she recalled.

He sloped an eyebrow severely at her. "Yes?"

A smirk tugged at her lips. Before he could say anything else, she started whistling. Wrathion's shoulders dropped, too frustrated to even keep up the tension in the muscles there, as he rolled his eyes and head.

"This isn't _quickly_ ," he growled. Right kept whistling. " _What_ are you—"

A whinny sounded behind him. Wrathion started, shocked, and spun around to see a horse rushing toward them. He recognized it—it was the one Right had ridden in on earlier. Wrathion staggered back as the beast trundled close, turning its flank to them. Wrathion blinked, bewildered for a moment longer, before a delighted, unsettled fit of laughter escaped him.

"What did I _tell you_ about stealing from Whiterun?" he said, trying to growl, but amusement took to his voice instead.

Right shrugged. "He likes me," she said.

Wrathion's laughter only intensified. Right pulled herself into the saddle and offered him a hand, which he was prompt to take and help himself up behind her. The horse shuffled and snorted. Right stroked his mane.

"You haven't named him," Wrathion said, even with a bit of surprise to his voice.

"Sure I have," Right said.

"Oh?"

"Mr. Throne."

Wrathion blinked, and Right must have sensed his confusion, because she went on.

"Doesn't that suit him, _Black Prince_?"

He coughed out a laugh, bewildered and unnerved and utterly thrilled. "You are _terrible_ with names."

"Says the one who can't remember mine," she said, and spurred Throne's flank just as she and Wrathion caught the sound of a shouting nord.

Right glanced back toward the sound as Throne hesitated, hooves shuffling. It was a guardsman, running down the road. Seeing he'd caught Right's attention, he waved to stop her, though Throne still sensed her teetering on the brink of departure and continued to shift his feet impatiently.

"Go," Wrathion snapped, "preferably before I get arrested again—"

"Dragonborn!" the guard said, earning a groan from Wrathion. "Wait!"

Wrathion finally looked at the guardsman, which Right correctly assumed meant they weren't leaving after all and relaxed. Throne settled right after. The guardsman finally reached them, gasping, and Wrathion squinted because of this. He wasn't here because of the stolen horse—he'd clearly been running far longer than that.

"Unless you're here to tell me Katrana Prestor has reconsidered," Wrathion started, as the guard doubled to catch his breath, "you can turn right back around and return to Dragonsreach. I'm very busy, you know."

"Summons," the guard wheezed.

"Yes, I can see you're summoning me."

"No." He took a deep breath and coughed, only managing to continue whole moments later. "Not us—did you hear the summons?"

Wrathion frowned as a thought crossed his mind. "What summons?"

"They're calling you," he said. He breathed again and stood up straight, his chest rising and falling with such strain that his breastplate clanked in places. "The Kirin Tor are—" He stopped, then, and squinted at the horse. "Isn't that Whiterun's?"

Right and Wrathion exchanged a glance.

———Hearth Fire 2nd———

A guardswoman came around the corner just as Bolvar was storming through. He nearly ran into her, had she not seen his shadow and ducked to safety.

"Highlord," she gasped, a hand clasped to her chest. "Pardon me—"

"No worries," he said, his voice far too harsh, but he hadn't time to correct it now. "Nice reflexes," he added, hoping to mend the startled look on her face.

She remained conflicted about his mood, but he carried on before she could stutter out a reply. Bolvar went on his way through Dragonsreach, his heart pounding with enough force he swore he could hear it drumming against his breastplate.

The journey to Anduin Wrynn's room was effortless and took little time. Bolvar was told that's where the prince was moved following the trying surgery at the Temple of Kynareth, one the highlord had regretfully been too busy to be there for, but he had the sneaking suspicion Anduin would have preferred it that way. He'd had his father, at least, and the prince was always understanding of Bolvar's duties.

He didn't want to disturb the prince's rest, by any means, but the highlord was certain that's where Varian would be right now, and he needed to speak with him. Urgently.

He was nearly upon Anduin's room now. As he approached though, the door opened unexpectedly, and to Bolvar's relief, it was Varian that stepped out. The king glanced up and down the hall until he saw Bolvar, and his face set into a stony grimace that mirrored Bolvar's own.

"You heard it," Bolvar said.

"I thought I might've imagined it," Varian admitted. Gently, he closed the door to Anduin's room.

A pang of guilt struck up in Bolvar's chest. "Is he—"

"He's asleep," Varian said, but his face immediately contorted and he lowered his chin, sighing. 'Unconscious' was what he meant.

Bolvar shut his mouth and swallowed. "Your boy is strong, Varian."

The steeliness in Varian's eyebrows faded, some, and Bolvar saw the deep sadness tucked underneath. He corrected it quickly, meeting Bolvar's eyes again. "You heard it too," he said.

Bolvar nodded. "It had to have been the Kirin Tor. There's no other—"

"Where is the Dragonborn?" Varian asked.

The highlord held his breath, then released it and looked away. "He left over an hour ago. I've sent for him, but if he's left the city already..."

Varian squeezed his eyes shut, then bowed his head and rubbed his face. This Dragonborn never seemed to stop giving him a migraine.

Bolvar hesitated, racking his mind for words. "He's smart, your majesty. And he's done a lot of research—for all we know, he's been to High Hrothgar before. Maybe he'll answer them."

"Doubtful," Varian grumbled.

"You haven't seen him face dragons, my king," Bolvar said. "Nor what that responsibility clearly means to him. If the Kirin Tor have summoned him, maybe he'll listen. He'd be a fool if he didn't let them temper his Voice, and he'd be all the more powerful if he did."

Varian took a slow, deep breath. He still looked unsure, but he also looked less aggravated.

"I hope you're right, Bolvar."

The highlord softened some. He laughed once, smiling. "Besides, you can trust Rhonin to get his way."

To his surprise, Varian gave an amused smile in turn. "Rhonin? He might be their top dog, but it's Jaina he should be worried about."

Bolvar couldn't help but laugh again, his voice warming at the lighter topic. " _Jaina_?"

"Don't give me that," he spat without heat.

The highlord raised his hands, bowing his head in submission. "You're surely right, my king," he teased, playing up the doubt in his voice. As far as he could recall, Jaina was certainly strong, but quite sweet. "It's been many years since I've seen for myself."

"Have you ever gotten on her bad side?" Varian said. "You'll rue the day you cross her."

Bolvar smiled broadly, but just for a moment, as the door opened behind Varian. The king moved aside, head whirling back as a draenei woman squeezed out and disappeared down the hall with a clear destination in mind. The event was momentary, but it left the air between them weighted and just a little harder to breathe, as hushed conversation carried in from the bedroom.

"These aren't like any burns I've seen before."

"It's _dragon fire_ , of course you've never seen it befo—"

There was a creak of furniture and a sharp cry, echoed by startled healers. Bolvar failed to resist flinching, holding his breath, but Varian didn't move. He only watched the floor, and it made the highlord wonder if this is what he'd been hearing since the Temple. The thought was as heavy as the air.

"I don't understand, these should've closed!"

"Divines... I'm not sure taking the leg did any—"

"Quiet, you, before the king hears!"

The door latched closed, to Varian's surprise. When he looked, it was Bolvar who had shut it. He hadn't even seen the highlord move. Nor had Varian seen him lift his arm, and only noticed when his hand was on the king's shoulder.

"He's strong," Bolvar repeated.

For a moment, it felt as though all the exhaustion of the past two weeks had rallied on Varian at once, and he nearly collapsed under the weight. But in the next moment it was bearable, and barred away with everything else. He lowered his head, and nearly reached for Bolvar's arm when the clatter of plate and the call of a guardswoman distracted them.

"Highlord," she, the woman from before, said between breaths. She saw Varian, shut her mouth and nodded her respects. "Your majesty." Then she looked at Bolvar again. "They found him."

Bolvar straightened. "The Dragonborn?"

She nodded again. "He resisted, but they worked it out. They're bringing him in now."

Bolvar crooked an eyebrow and forced a laugh. "You make it sound like you arrested him."

"They almost did."

"On what grounds?"

"He stole a horse, sir."

"A hors—" He snapped his mouth closed, shocked to hear Varian's exasperation drive him to laughter. "Varian?"

"Unbelievable," the king groaned between fits. "Maybe Jaina's just the sort of authority he needs."

———Hearth Fire 2nd———

Jaina sighed.

High Hrothgar was maddeningly quiet. To most, that would seem obvious—the Kirin Tor were, after all, famous for their Way of the Voice, which to many meant the Tongues _must_ be silent. That simply wasn't true. Or it _was_ , in a sense, but not in the way they thought. Jaina shook her head, dismissing the tangent.

What made it so alienating and restless was that normally, she would hear practiced Shouts resounding across the great mountain. But nothing. Not since late, late the night before last.

She knew why, of course. Everyone did by now. Though the act of speaking was dangerous, there were whispers—there were _always_ whispers. And word traveled, though slowly, through these whispers. Word of many things.

Word of the dragon they called Deathwing.

Word of Whiterun's Anduin Wrynn...

Jaina frowned. She had tried, many times, not to dwell on the young prince, but it was hard. Even after a hundred, a thousand, a million disagreements with his father, Anduin was something of a treasure to her. He was the light of Whiterun in the dead of night, when she'd look out her window and see the great city glowing through the dark and fog below.

And though Whiterun hadn't been any darker the last two weeks, it ached her heart to look at it.

She barely knew the boy. She hadn't even seen him in years. It wasn't like she spent much time away from High Hrothgar—she had studies, after all. But she was fond of that little prince, and the news of his death still shook her.

And to think a dragon, of all things, was to blame.

Jaina shut her eyes, and with them, the open book in her lap; the latter sent out a sharp clap that lingered in her _maddeningly_ quiet room. She wouldn't dwell on what any dragon had done to Anduin Wrynn—with his Voice, even—no. No! She wasn't going to have this fight with herself again.

The Voice was not to blame, and neither was dragonkind.

Deathwing. _Deathwing_ was to blame.

She held the thought firmly in her mind, desperate to absorb it. She sighed, slumping against the cold stone wall behind her. The bed underneath her creaked as her hands, one wielding the book, fell from her lap so that her knees might curl up to her chest.

It was _so_ quiet today.

And she knew why, because the word got to her by way of whispering. Just like word of Deathwing, and of Anduin Wrynn.

Word of the Dovahkiin.

She should have been relieved, shouldn't she? The return of dragonkind was not easily dealt with. Not just because of their immense power, but because of her Way. The Kirin Tor's Way. It wasn't as simple as rounding up a wagon of Tongues and descending upon Skyrim to chase the dragons back into history books where many, not outright wrongfully, believed they ought to stay.

Though Jaina herself had never struggled with her Way as much as this, since word of Anduin Wrynn whispered its way to her. But it wasn't her place. The Way of the Voice was one that emphasized peace. Any anger she harbored in the loss of a nord prince she hardly knew was far from a True Need to use her Voice. No anger or sense of loss would tempt her to use hers in the least of its ways, try as it might.

But it sure was trying.

There was none other in High Hrothgar whose exploitation of the Voice could be excused by a time of True Need. To find Deathwing and do battle with him via the Voice would be to leave their Way in selfish abandon.

And though Jaina was loath to resort to violence, the Way had never quite been so frustrating. Here was a settlement of mages with the power that dragons themselves held, a power equal to the fearsome creatures', but it couldn't be used save for a time of True Need.

So yes, she should have been thrilled that the Dragonborn had been found the night before last; that their Shouts had been heard and a dragon's soul, sensed by the Laas Groniik, wandered free of its body in the heart of a mortal child. She should have been thrilled because Dragonborn were not bound to the Way; their presence alone was evidence of a True Need, as Dragonborn only appeared in the world when there was great evil to ward off. A Dragonborn's Voice was always justified by a True Need, and excused by the Way. And one such Dragonborn had come—all this proven when a dragon died but his soul lingered.

But instead, she was anxious. She was afraid, and sad, and angry.

Because Deathwing was only the first, and Anduin would not be the last, and there was nothing she could—

A rapping startled her from her thoughts. She dropped her book on the bed and smoothed out the robes draping down from her coiled knees. "Come in," she said.

The door opened, and the first thing she saw in the shadowed threshold was a head of red hair.

Jaina sat up off the wall, inching to the edge of the bed. "Rhonin."

"Jaina," Rhonin greeted, his voice unusually heavy and dark.

"You've returned from the summit," Jaina said, glancing over the layer of snow that stuck to every inch of his clothes. "What did she say?"

Rhonin sighed, inviting himself into the room. He plucked Jaina's chair away from the desk, spinning it around until its back was to her so that he could sit backwards in it.

Jaina crooked an eyebrow at his equally unusual silence. "Rhonin?"

"A lot," he answered, frustrated. His tone was raised, but Jaina wasn't worried like she would be if any other Tongue spoke at such a volume. Rhonin had great control of his Voice, perhaps even better than herself, but she was willing to bet otherwise even so. "She said a lot."

Jaina resisted most of a scowl, only frowning. "Would you like to share?"

Rhonin sighed again, the sound even more aggravated than the last. He glanced back toward the door, thinking. Jaina waited him out.

"I'm sure you know why she summoned me by now," he started.

"She sensed a dragon die the other night," Jaina said. "Deathwing—?"

"No," he said with a hollow laugh. "No, I wish."

Her irked frown turned sad. Deathwing was the first, and now more were appearing. "Is it true that his soul is still in this world?"

Rhonin clucked his tongue and shifted. The chair scratched on the stone floor. "Yup," he said, putting on an air of delight that only seemed half-genuine. "Still floating around Whiterun Hold."

"She thinks it's Dragonborn," Jaina said.

"She does."

"Is she right?"

Rhonin smirked, cocking his head to the side some. "We'll find out soon enough. Come on."

Jaina raised her eyebrows as Rhonin lifted out of the seat, headed back out of her room. "Rhonin—?"

"Follow me," he said, not stopping.

Jaina held in a huff and hopped out of bed, quick to tug her boots on and hurry after the other Tongue. She found him sauntering through the hall and kept close. The rest of High Hrothgar was just as eerily quiet, even as the pair passed other Tongues. The oldest mages did not speak either, though that was to be expected; they rarely did. Rhonin led on to the great doors that emptied out to the courtyard. Jaina hesitated, and he heard her footsteps fall silent behind him. He glanced at her to find her looking a bit alarmed.

"I didn't bring a..."

As she spoke, he looked her over and realized the problem. "Oh, of course," he said, and shrugged off his heavy, snow-stuck cloak, offering it to her. "There you are."

She blinked, just looking even more distressed. "You'll freeze!"

"Nonsense," he grinned. "I just hiked up and down the summit; I'm roasting in here. The fresh air will be a relief."

She wrinkled her nose to hide a smile and took the cloak. "Thank you."

He shrugged, smiling still, and pushed open the door while Jaina swung the cloak around her shoulders. The gust of bitter wind still shocked her, snow and cold blowing through her blonde hair and watering her eyes. She blinked twice and rubbed them, half-afraid the tears would simply freeze there, and followed Rhonin out into the courtyard, caked in more white than even his cloak. The sun burned in the sky, but did nothing against what frigid winds blew this high above Skyrim.

Rhonin was purposeful as he crossed the courtyard, passing a few more Tongues as he went on. Jaina was right behind him, the brisk pace doing well to fend off the chill.

"I hope I didn't interrupt you," he yelled over the roaring wind.

Like before, Jaina was not frightened by how loud his voice had become, despite how dangerous speaking so freely was for those of the Kirin Tor. "Not from anything imp—" she'd begun, struggling herself to raise her voice above the howling wind, but stopped. Her thoughts had been distracting her from her studies, yes, but they weren't unimportant. "Don't worry about it."

So Rhonin didn't. The populated area of the courtyard was behind them now, as he approached a great crag that stuck out past most of the mountain's edge. Almost like it was designed that way, a single stretch of rock that jutted out like a balcony, allowing a simply breathtaking view of Whiterun Hold, should one be able to see the great land through the white fog and snow that plagued the air.

Rhonin went right to the edge, fearless. Just as bravely, Jaina came up besides him. He gestured out at the view, its usual wall of white nothingness, but they both knew what beautiful world laid beyond it.

"We're standing on the brink of history, Jaina," he said.

Jaina glanced at him, squinting through the wind. "Are we?" she teased.

"I've been given a special order," Rhonin went on, a pride weighing heavy on his voice. "I'd like you to help me carry it out. You _are_ the next talented Tongue here."

"' _Next_ talented'?" Jaina repeated, feigning offense. "You might be able to yell with free abandon, but I'd like to see what such a docile Voice can really do someday."

"Oh!" Rhonin laughed, grinning wide. "Jaina Proudmoore, you're colder than the summit herself!"

Jaina couldn't fight down a grin of her own. "What order?"

Rhonin only seemed more excited with the question. "If she's right—if the Dragonborn has returned..."

Jaina understood then. "You've been ordered to summon them."

Rhonin, at this, flicked out his hand as an offer. "Shall we?"

Jaina lifted her chin some, and set her hand in his.

"You," he paused, his great smile turning teasing, " _do_ know what to Shout, don't you?"

"Keep it up and I'll do it without you," she warned, smirking.

Rhonin bristled, though remained amused. "Don't! I didn't bring you out here to steal the glory!"

"Then Shout, Redhair!"

He popped his neck and inhaled. She did the same. They faced the expanse before them, Voices swelling like prodded flames in their chests, and together, they Shouted:

" **Dov Ah Kiin**!"

Even the wind bowed to their Voices, twisting and bending out of the way as the force of the combined power tore through the air. The mountain shivered, faintly, even as the words hurtled away from the massive peak. As the echo subsided, the wind shed its fear and resumed, whistling through their hair and robes. Silence devoured High Hrothgar once more, save for that shrieking wind.

Rhonin sighed, relieved. His whitened breath was swept away in an instant.

"Will they come?" Jaina asked, glancing at the other Tongue.

He smirked, a slight laugh trapped in his mouth, as he stared out at the view.

" _Believe, believe._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [dragon translations](http://textuploader.com/feo2)
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> 
> hi, i'm not dead, writing is just hard.
> 
> because "kirin tor" sounds way cooler than "greybeards" and sometimes that's all that matters. and i asked myself, a very long time ago, if i should put jaina at the mage's college in winterhold, because YES that made sense, but i like this idea way better. (it'll be so fun, wrathion and jaina and dragon powers, come on. don't look at me like that.)
> 
> in other news, left and right have origin stories and i know exactly which in-game skyrim quests they are. you can probably guess right's. go on, i believe in you.


	15. Kuz Ulaak Maarahmik

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **content warnings:** animal death (and skinning), mentions of burns/amputation/death
> 
> note the time jump!

Chapter 15: Kuz Ulaak Maarahmik  
"Taking Care of Business"

———Hearth Fire 11th———

There were times Wrathion almost forgot the Rift was of Skyrim's nine holds.

It was much warmer than most of the frigid, snowy country. The only white to be seen was that of the birch trees, their red and gold leaves offering an illusion of even more warmth. The lakes rippled and sparkled, iceless and wealthy with fish, something the Rift's economy flourished with. Even the sky had a certain heat to it—often times, the wind was light, and the sun's rays could be felt upon one's face.

It was a beautiful place, though its pretty face hid more secrets than could be counted. The Rift's capital city was home to the Thieves Guild, for one thing. That said enough about its notoriety. From their cat burglars to their own guard force, everyone had at least a little dirt on their hands. Or blood. Often both.

But if you knew how to navigate such a cutthroat world—and Wrathion very much did—you'd do all right. You might even learn something. And that was what Wrathion was here for: to learn something.

Wrathion made a swift if unnecessarily wide leap off Throne. After so much time riding behind Right, he was getting quite good with the whole concept of horses. Not that he'd readily admit he'd ever been _bad_ at it. Haggling the horse away from Whiterun had been an ordeal, but since they were so adamant about Wrathion answering the Kirin Tor's summons, he persuaded them to lend him the horse for an easier journey to the Rift. He left out the bit where he might not go as far as High Hrothgar, though, as it did not serve his goals in the least. With a dismissive wave at his agent, who nodded her understanding and took Throne by the reins toward the stables they'd stopped only feet from, Wrathion made his way to the northern gate of Riften.

"Halt," one of the two guards flanking the gate said. She had a critical look in her eye, an ever-present distrust Wrathion was more than used to in the Rift. (And maybe in general.)

"Sentinel," he greeted. "How fares Queen Tyrande?"

The sentinel didn't dignify that with a response. In truth, Wrathion didn't need one. Tyrande Whisperwind had practically ruled the Rift far longer than Wrathion had even been alive, with the way her husband couldn't seem to stay inside the city—though none of the decisions had truly been hers, just short of the power to defy the king and his less-than-brilliant ideas. In a silver-lining kind of way, Malfurion's passing had saved Riften from tearing itself apart.

Its reputation lived on though, and so too did its crowd. But to Wrathion's understanding, Tyrande's approach might yet build the factions up instead of tear them down. That'd certainly be most convenient to him, so he decided he liked Tyrande.

"What business do you have in Riften?" the sentinel asked.

"Just visiting old friends," Wrathion said. The sentinel squinted at him. He sighed, shifted on his feet and started rifling through his pockets. Visiting Riften was tricky when legislation had a hand in everything. He pulled a trinket out and showed it to the sentinel. "Will this suffice?"

She leaned forward some to examine it, then straightened again and nodded her head toward the gate. "Welcome to Riften," she said.

"And my friend?"

"Her too."

Wrathion smiled at her. "Your hospitality is duly noted," he said, and passed through the gate.

The city streets clamored around him, yet there was something almost stifled about it. It wasn't unusual, in Riften, for the bustle to feel hushed and secretive even while it roared from wall to wall. On one hand, it put Wrathion on high alert, aware that he was among many characters like Katrana Prestor, like Left and Right, like himself.

On the other hand, he felt positively at home in such a tense environment.

"You know," Right said. Wrathion didn't know when she'd appeared on his appropriate side, but like always, didn't question it; "there're about a hundred blind spots in the city perimeter, and even more that aren't endorsed with a shadowmark."

"Ah." Wrathion held up his trinket by the pendant instead of the chain and tapped it; a circle within a diamond. "Those back doors are filthy, though."

"So you'd rather just exploit the Guild."

"Yes, please."

Right raised an eyebrow. Wrathion rolled his eyes.

"Oh, come on," he groaned at her. "They owe me anyway."

"For what?"

"Something, I'm sure," he said, then started through the street. Right said nothing else and followed him.

The whispered buzz of the city contorted into something reminiscent of Whiterun. Talk of secrecy became about trade as Wrathion approached the plaza, seated on a long, winding deck that elevated it just out of reach from the stench of the canals underway. Stalls filled the square, manned by vendors whose words were Cyrodilic, but their voices still carried the soothing accent of the wood elves. They advertised anything from fish to trinkets, yet often times it was the unspoken services that sold the most.

It was just as Wrathion had thought earlier. The Rift was a pretty face hiding a slew of secrets.

"Hey," Right said, gesturing at one of the stalls. It was laid out with jewelry, including a golden hoop Right had pointed out specifically. "Look familiar?"

Wrathion crooked an eyebrow at her, unamused. "There's only one. Hardly a bargain."

"Maybe you're wearing its sibling."

"Ha hah," he rolled his eyes, and skirted past the stall.

Right hurried after him. "So, your friend."

"Mm," Wrathion smiled, though his eyes remained narrow. "You have a guess?"

"'A guess'," Right mocked. "You're more obvious than you think."

"You haven't bounced any names off me yet, have you?"

"I know who you're looking for."

"Until you guess, I'll assume you're bluffing."

Right scoffed. "Riften makes you so cagey."

" _Riften_ is like a second home to me."

"After Hammerfell or Skyrim?"

"Hm!" was Wrathion's only answer besides a shrug and a coy smile.

He shuffled through the crowded plaza and popped out the other side, sauntering straight toward a building to his right, where a large forge sat in the adjacent yard. Right glanced up at the wooden sign dangling over the door. The Scorched Hammer.

"Ah," was all she said.

Wrathion glanced at her. "'Ah'?"

"Didn't want to risk another one of Whiterun's daggers?"

"Tuh," he scoffed, looking forward. He headed into the yard. "Absolutely not."

The yard was lined with a fair display of weapons, all of which Wrathion preferred over that hideous knife the highlord had given him. Compared to that, even the warhammers and battleaxes looked manageable, though he was loath to wield anything heavier than a small sword or perhaps a polearm of some sort. So he gravitated toward the collection of daggers, the steel ones in particular ringing familiar to him. He plucked one from the others, balancing it between two hands, a finger on the hilt and one on the blade. Wincing, he set it down and checked two more. A smith handling one of the swords spared him an inquisitive look. By the fourth knife, Wrathion was beginning to worry the feel he'd come to expect of his weapon was the result of his last dagger's wear, and the thought was not quite distressing, but close to it.

Right watched him patiently, as his scorning faces became more and more contorted, until finally she sighed and took the current knife from his hands. He opened his mouth to protest, only to shut it when she flipped the weapon so its blade was pinched between her thumb and curled fingers, then unceremoniously and nonchalantly slammed the hilt against edge of the table, launching a blunt twanging sound into the air.

"Hey!" the weaponsmith nearby snapped. "You better pay for that!"

"Here," Right said, offering the damaged handle to Wrathion.

Wrathion pouted, unconvinced, but took the dagger and twisted his wrist while he held it. His pout didn't change, but his eyebrows raised, impressed. "Better. Maybe once more."

Right took the dagger and whacked it against the table again, then returned it. The weaponsmith was stomping over, her eyes directed at Right, by the time Wrathion smirked.

"What in all the planes of Oblivion are you—"

"I'll take it," Wrathion said.

The weaponsmith looked from Right to the Dragonborn and froze in place, momentarily alarmed and then even more exasperated. "Oh, it's you."

"Merelyssa!" he greeted with far more cheer than she. "You recognize me."

The weaponsmith crossed her arms with a huff. "How could I not? Even under all that leather, you still got those dragon eyes."

Wrathion's smile perked, and while he didn't like people calling them _dragon_ eyes, it was a nice break from being mistaken as part-elf—and, admittedly, closer to the truth. He shifted and produced a handful of gold, which she accepted with another scoff.

"I've been thinkin' about you since Helgen, Dragonborn," she said, inflecting the title as she always did. She was one of the few who had taken to calling him such, outside of his Blacktalons, though she did so with a permeating disdain. "It true?"

"Oh, it's true," Wrathion said.

"And you?"

His eyes narrowed just slightly at her doubting tone. "I am, as promised, the real thing."

She shifted her jaw. "Good," she said, with no visible trace of relief, then grinned; her long ears perked with the gesture. "You eat any? How's dragon taste?"

He frowned at her. "That's not how it—" He stopped himself and pinched his nose. "Never mind. Yes. That's why I'm here, actually. My last dagger is just a hilt now, you see—the blade is in the skull of a dead dragon."

She scoffed again, but this one leaned more toward a laugh. She looked away to start counting the coins he'd handed her, paused and glanced at the table. "Damage is extra."

Wrathion's eyebrows pinched together, but he quickly hid it with a false smile. "Merelyssa, we're friends—"

"No we ain't," she said. "Cough it up."

He snorted and handed her a bit more. Satisfied, she returned to counting. Wrathion considered turning to leave right there, but decided she would snatch the scruff of his shirt and haul him back into place until she was finished.

"Oh," she said, closing her hand around the gold as she recalled something. "Did you hear Hrothgar last week?"

Wrathion blinked at her and shifted his jaw. "I did."

"That why you're in Riften?"

"I was headed this way regardless," he said. It wasn't a lie, but it did permit him to dodge the question, because no, he wasn't headed for High Hrothgar.

There had been a time, years ago, when gaining entry to the Kirin Tor was his top priority. In fact, Hrothgar had been the very first place he'd intended to visit, knowing all too well that they studied and comprehended the Voice more than anyone else, but he'd been persuaded against bothering. The Kirin Tor were a reclusive faction, and would not be the audience of a wayward child claiming he bled dragon's blood. At least, not unless he had proof, and back then, he had none.

Now he had their summons—a personal invitation written with the Voice as their ink—and all he could do, really, was laugh. They had knowledge, yes, and a lot of it, but Wrathion knew they would never share it and doubted even whatever reason they had to believe he was Dragonborn would be enough to make them put their philosophy, their burdensome Way aside. They were in all other ways steadfast in their beliefs, utterly unshakeable, and Wrathion would not waste the trip up seven-thousand stair steps to be told they would aid him _if_ and _only if_ he converted to the Way of the Voice. The bounteous knowledge was worthless if he surrendered his birthright to weaponize it.

Besides, now they were too late—he didn't have time for them while Deathwing waged war on Tamriel.

"You recognized their summons," he continued, quirking an eyebrow at the weaponsmith.

"Not me," Merelyssa said. "It sounded like gibberish to me at first. Only found out it was the Kirin Tor when people started talking about it. You're gonna answer 'em though, right?"

He winced at her. "Did I imply I wouldn't?"

She smirked back at him and shrugged. "Just sayin', most people around here would call you rude, puttin' them off for errands."

 _That_ was true. Skyrim's high regard for the Kirin Tor was one of the few things Wrathion didn't like to provoke. He smiled and spun his new dagger in his hand. "Frankly, I don't know what I'd do without your expertise. It seems no one in this country can make a decent knife."

Merelyssa clucked her tongue. "For the sake of business, Dragonborn, I hope it stays that way."

"Hm," was all he said. A fair enough point, he supposed. He secured the dagger to his hip and swept his cloak over it to distill the ever-present, out of sight eyes that watched him.

"You come back the next time a dragon eats your dagger, eh?" Merelyssa teased.

He smiled lazily at her. "Until then," he said, retreating from the weaponsmith's yard.

"And don't break anything!" she added with a hand to her mouth.

Satisfied, Wrathion waved back at her and made his way back toward the plaza, though made a decided point of skirting around the edge this time. Right was two steps behind him, privately trying to predict where they were headed next.

"You didn't come to Riften for a knife."

"Sure I did," Wrathion said. "My last was one of Merelyssa's as well."

"I remember," Right said. "But not even her weaponry would have you on the opposite side of the country from Deathwing."

Wrathion made a series of insincerely disappointed hums. "No. You're right about that."

"So where are we going?"

"The Bee and Barb!" Wrathion grinned, gesturing at the large tavern rising out of the crowd ahead.

Right shifted her jaw, effectively annoyed. "The inn."

"Patience, Right," he said, his gleeful look positively childish. "You mustn't rush in the Rift."

Right hummed, refusing to look at his patronizing expression. "I'm taking a nap."

"And leaving me to my lonesome? In _Riften_?" he chided, resisting most of a snicker.

Still not looking, Right reached over, pinched the front of his turban and yanked it over his eyes. Wrathion let out an embarrassingly shrill noise, fixed the garment, and fixed Right with a glare. She felt better and smirked.

———Hearth Fire 11th———

The Reach burned less than Whiterun did.

The grasslands were ruptured with huge stretches of stone crests, the jagged landscape reminiscent of shattered pottery as slabs of rock lay piled upon one another. It made it all the harder for anything to catch fire, which meant the bleed of Deathwing's volcanic gashes was much more difficult to track.

But Left managed.

And she had managed for over a week. Traveling farther, and farther, and farther west. She was maybe two days from the brink of Skyrim and the neighboring country of High Rock—perhaps a bit longer, actually. The chaos of the Reach's bladed mountains was nothing to underestimate. Was Deathwing making his way out of the country? Perhaps even to the sea? It hardly made sense. Wrathion made it clear dragons were returning to Skyrim, and while there was nothing truly binding them to the frigid land, to her knowledge, Left wasn't wholly sure what reason Deathwing would have for leaving. There was, after all, still plenty of frigid land to terrorize.

High Rock was still a ways west though; there was plenty between here, near a river that sliced through the Reach, and the border. Left wasn't about to get ahead of herself.

"Did we lose him again?"

Left's lip curled just a touch at the man's voice, fussy and annoyed. A high elf—one of four agents that had found Left's bread crumb trail and caught up to her, per Wrathion's orders. It was he, Zelanis, who had taken over Left's journal, where she'd been documenting her observations during her time following Deathwing. Wrathion complained frequently about Left's handwriting, and Zelanis' was much nicer.

"Not yet," chirped another agent, a wood elf named Syurna, who had been charged with the actual job of identifying Left's trail and tracking her in the first place. Left had not dismissed the opportunity to redirect her skill set onto pursuing Deathwing.

Zelanis huffed. "Well, don't let it happen."

"I _won't_ ," Syurna said.

"You've already lost him twice."

"Just keep blathering into your book."

"'Blathering'! These records are _crucial_. The Dragonborn appreciates an eye for detail."

"He also appreciates a certain lack of _lip_."

"Stop squabbling," Left grunted. The pair of elves hushed. She pointed ahead. "There."

Syurna followed the gesture and grinned at the small puddle of bubbling liquid oozing down a nearby stretch of stone. "It's fresh! He's still close."

"Does that mean we can take a rest?" Osborne, a nord with a permanent worried crease to his brow, piped up. Left could only guess whose idea it was to send him to hunt dragons, but her theory was how quick he was. Perhaps one of Wrathion's fastest, and he was surely dedicated. He'd make an ample messenger when a strong enough report was compiled.

"Are you hungry again?" the last agent, a breton called Sarisse and a reoccurring partner of Osborne's, said with a baffled tone. She was sharp as a whip with an eye that could shoot mice in wild grass. A helpful assistant to Left and Syurna.

"I—" Osborne stammered. " _No_."

Sarisse pouted. "Mhm."

"We can't slow down," Zelanis called to them with a heavy matter-of-factness to his voice. "If we do, we'll _lose_ him."

"But we've been at it since dawn," Osborne said. "Sunset is coming!"

"And we _won't_ lose him," Syurna snapped at Zelanis, who just rolled his eyes so hard the sockets seemed to strain.

Left fired a look at the tracker, who straightened with a restrained grumble that sounded either like a frustrated apology or more bitter words for Zelanis.

"I can snipe something real quick," Sarisse offered, though kept her voice noncommittal. "Good luck convincing Zelanis to heat it up though."

"Hmph!" the high elf scoffed, throwing up his nose.

"Hunt while we track," Left said. "Then, we'll take a break. Ten minutes."

Osborne glowed with relief; Zelanis turned sour in the face and groaned. Sarisse said a momentary farewell to Osborne, by laying her hands along his jaw and tapping his nose with hers. It'd taken four separate reprimands in the last week to convince Zelanis to stop twisting it into a romantic thing. After, Sarisse shrugged the crossbow off her shoulder and armed herself, splintering from the group to hunt silently, without the added challenge of the other agents' chatter.

"His rests are getting less frequent," Syurna said with a thoughtful frown, her eyes trained on Deathwing's scarce trail.

"He's recuperated," Left said.

"Just be vigilant," Zelanis spoke up again, nose in his book.

Syurna balled her hands into fists, the nails that dug into her palms successfully deterring her from groaning at the high elf. "'Just be vigilant'," she mocked quietly, screwing up her nose and lip for effect.

"What if we do lose him?" Osborne asked.

"We _won't_ ," Syurna hissed for the third time.

"But if we _do_ ," Osborne insisted. "Just hypothetically."

"We'll report back to the Dragonborn," Left said evenly.

Zelanis scoffed with a single laugh. "Not if we like our heads on our shoulders!"

Left fired him her worst glare yet, a growl rumbling forth from the pit of her stomach. The tips of Zelanis's ears folded as he shrunk back. Osborne went stark white in the face, and even Syurna couldn't muster a snicker at Zelanis's expense through her deep cringe.

"We will report to the Dragonborn," Left said again, this time with a heavy anger suffocating her voice.

Zelanis nodded stiffly. He laughed—a miserably nervous sound—and flipped through the journal. "Perhaps he'll be pleased with the records I've made, at least," he offered.

Left's eyes narrowed. Zelanis swallowed and shut the book, understanding the cue to shut up this time.

Syurna cleared her throat. "This way," she said, moving ahead of Left. "It looks like he's slowing down after all."

"Oh, good," Osborne sighed.

Silence swallowed up the group again. Left preferred it to the bickering. She was perhaps unsurprised that, now that dragons were rearing up from the bowels of Skyrim, the Blacktalons were more on edge than ever. How many of them had trusted Wrathion's claims in the first place? How many simply wanted to get paid, or wanted some kind of _brotherhood_ to join in case they found themselves in trouble down the road? A few, at least. Left was certain several agents had already deserted their pledges to the Dragonborn the moment word of Helgen spread.

But clearly, some remained. Like the four headaches here.

Stones shifted. Left and Syurna stopped in unison, and Osborne, seeing this, froze a moment later. Zelanis, with his nose in his journal, ran into the back of the nord.

"Ouch," the high elf snarled. "What gives—"

Syurna thrust her hand into Zelanis's mouth. "Shh," she said. Zelanis sputtered a muffled swear.

Another rock clinked away. Left raised her crossbow toward the sound, only to find Sarisse and a dead animal in her crosshairs. The orc grunted. "Announce yourself."

"Apologies," Sarisse mumbled. She held the morsel up to show Osborne, who pouted at the sight of it.

"Raccoon?" he said.

Sarisse shrugged. "No time to be picky."

"Ten minutes," Left stated. "Then we move."

Osborne shuffled to a nearby stone, accompanied by Sarisse, who plucked a large knife out of her belt for skinning the raccoon. "Zelanis?" Osborne said to the elf, once the corpse was furless.

Zelanis frowned, deeply offended. He sighed loudly, and with a flick of his wrist, a blur of lightning streaked through the air and cooked the morsel nicely.

Osborne grinned as Sarisse cut up portions. "Thanks!"

"My magic deserves more respect than this," Zelanis grumbled.

Syurna rolled her eyes, the gesture allowing her to catch Left as the orc drifted away from the group. Squinting, Syurna followed her. They stopped on one of the ridges that jutted horizontally out of the inclining earth, overlooking the river far below. She leaned to see Left's face, who stared out into the wilderness. When Syurna followed her gaze, she spotted only an encampment. She was as sharp as Left when it came to details; it wasn't hard to see the banners and discern the orc's interest.

"Menethil," Syurna said.

Left only grunted. Syurna squinted again, trying to make out anything more, but all she could see were the tents and flags. The wood elf's expertise was not in politics nor gossip, so admittedly, she knew less about the civil war than other Blacktalons. She wasn't even sure if Wrathion himself was paying attention. She'd certainly never received any orders regarding it, but again, there were others more equipped for that kind of work than she.

"Scourge," Left said, reclaiming Syurna's attention. "That's what the Thalmor call them."

Syurna gave a soft laugh, but the smile didn't reach her eyes. "Charming," she lied. "Do you have some order regarding the civil war?"

Left, again, gave no clear answer that Syurna could interpret without Right to elaborate. She could only assume Wrathion either didn't care about the outcome, or did. Syurna supposed the Legion's, er, _tenacity_  might be beneficial in the dragon crisis. But then, so would Arthas Menethil's.

"He's looking for something," Left said.

Syurna glanced at her and frowned. "Menethil?" she asked. "Or Wrathion?"

Left shook her head. "Deathwing."

The wood elf blinked and snapped her mouth closed. She looked around them, as if something noteworthy were just out of sight that the dragon might be after, but found nothing. "You think so?"

"His injuries are the only reason we've been able to keep up," Left said. "He's taken frequent rests, yet continually travels west. He's passed several places he could've destroyed like he did Helgen."

Syurna hummed, considering it for a moment. "Then," she paused, "what is he looking f—"

The rare tree decorating the ridge bristled and hissed as a frightened wind ripped through it. It gushed over Left and Syurna, forcing them to brace their footing as their eyes shot to the skies. A heavy shadow submerged them, its black color rivaled only by the huge scaled beast that soared well over their heads. Deathwing had resurfaced from his disappearance—periods that made it feel as though he transcended realities—and was now sailing over the stony carnage the agents stood upon. They hid, promptly, and were not seen by the great dragon as he soared toward the jagged peaks. Soon, the frightened wind settled, though the Blacktalons did not.

"He's headed southwest!" Sarisse's voice called, as the three agents Left and Syurna had wandered from rejoined the pair.

"After him," was Left's order, already pursuing.

None of the agents complained, though Osborne shoved as much raccoon as he could into his mouth before discarding the meal. Deathwing's shrinking form, a silhouette no blacker than his scales, vanished behind the crags. It did not take long for the agents, though grounded, to find a way up.

———Hearth Fire 11th———

"What do you know of dragon fire?"

The question surprised Katrana. Well—not the question, she supposed, and not even the sorry-looking prophet standing in the archway of her study. What surprised her was that it was the first thing he'd said. She hadn't even realized he was there prior. It was abrupt and much too rude for his usual self.

But Velen was not his usual self, and Katrana sensed it instantly. His skin, though already near colorless, was dull and sunken under a week's weight of exhaustion. His long beard was mussed and tangled, and his eyes seemed darker than an expert of magic commonly thought to be _living light_ had any right to be.

Katrana sensed how unwell he was, and she knew why.

"Prophet," she smiled, the gesture untouched by her eyes as always. "It's quite late."

Velen did not glance at the window, where he would have seen a pitch black sky and a moon whose contrasting light chimed something near midnight. He only walked—stumbled, more like—deeper into the room. He looked as though he could collapse. Katrana hoped he'd take care not to do so on any of her tables.

"Dragon fire," the prophet repeated, though even now his voice seemed gentle.

Katrana hummed, nodding absently. She glanced at what she'd been working on—a roll of parchment laid on the tabletop nearest to her, shiny wet ink drying upon it. She turned to Velen and smiled again, just as she had before. "This is about Prince Anduin, I take it."

Velen sighed, a sound unbefitting of such a soft voice. "I amputated his leg a week ago, as I'm sure you know, but damage remains. I'm struggling to purge the last of Deathwing's strange magic from him."

"Dragon fire is not like what we learned in college," Katrana said with a certain fondness, though she repressed it if only because admiring the very magic that was killing their prince was... inappropriate. "Their tongue warps everything. Words become weapons. Debate becomes war."

Velen only frowned, but with resignation behind it, as if Katrana had only confirmed a fear of his. "I hoped you might know something I don't."

Katrana's smile slipped—or so it looked, anyway, but it took some effort to push the corners of her lips down so naturally. "There is _one_ solution I know will work."

At this, Velen's eyes hardened. "I could not take more of his leg," he said. "It is unnecessary."

"Is it," Katrana said, failing to emphasize her words as a question, because it wasn't one.

"For now," Velen clarified, and if Katrana didn't know better, she'd call him angry. "More important, I fear any further surgery would kill him. He narrowly survived the initial amputation."

 _He narrowly survived any of the last three weeks,_ was all Katrana could think on that. It seemed that since Helgen, Anduin Wrynn was teetering on the brink of death. It was a miracle he'd made it this long. _It'd be absurd if he makes it much longer,_ she thought.

She smiled hollowly for the third time. "Dragon fire," she said again, then tilted her head, thinking. "I know the nords had herbal remedies the last time dragons took residence in Skyrim. Let me look into it, Prophet. I'll have something for you shortly. Will that do?"

Velen drew a deep, tired breath, and did not release it so much as dropped it from his lungs. "It will. Thank you."

Her smile perked a hair. It was the closest it ever got to her eyes. "I hope I don't disappoint. You need rest."

But they both knew he couldn't rest. Not much, and not often. He was, after all, the only obstacle between Anduin and that brink of death he so precariously hung on. The priests from the Temple of Kynareth could manage for short periods of time, such as now, but the prince would deteriorate without Velen's aid.

He gave a nod, the gesture somewhat numb. "Thank you," he said again. Katrana wasn't sure if he forgot or was just that grateful for something positive.

Regardless, she only hummed her acknowledgement. Then the prophet disappeared out of her study, and the weight of civility disappeared with him. She glanced at her table, where the parchment continued to dry. Her map, copied off the dragonstone, would have to wait for now. She couldn't very well ignore her dying prince. She eyed her bookshelf, next, then approached it and traced her finger over bindings, trying to recall where she'd read about those remedies.

Something cold nipped at the nerves in the back of her neck. She did not give in to the desire to clench her muscles, let alone turn and alert the presence in the room to her awareness. She only continued to scan her bookshelf, but her eyes were unfocused on the bindings, her mind now trained upon the study behind her. She smiled and plucked a book from the shelf, which made it seem like it was the tome she was pleased about. But actually, it was the familiarity of a certain acquaintance.

She used the term loosely, of course—the nord girl had failed to ever introduce herself, or even show herself. But Katrana knew a few things about her—that she was a nord, obviously, though the auburn color of her hair and pointed features of her face denied it. She had the build otherwise, though—high and mighty, not unlike her conviction. Perhaps part-imperial, then.

Katrana found herself forgetting, sometimes, that the girl was there. She was a talented rogue, no doubt. Katrana wasn't sure how long she'd gone undetected by the court wizard, though she'd noticed her a few days ago. She did nothing to acknowledge the girl's presence, however. Katrana's only course of action was to keep a close eye on the dragonstone.

She was, after all, very familiar with Blacktalon agents, and she wasn't convinced this one wasn't here to steal the stone for her Dov Ah Kiin.

And though Katrana had let her be, this agent's lack of action was beginning to irritate her. She did not want to be flanked by Wrathion's henchmen while she prepared for her leave from Dragonsreach, and she definitely did not want to be followed _out_ of Dragonsreach. If she had been willing to share her knowledge with the Dragonborn, she'd have done so herself when he was standing in her study just a week ago.

And this girl was not the only agent. Katrana had counted three others. She wasn't sure if there were more, but she found herself checking more often than she'd like. This was an obnoxious distraction more than anything else, and it coupled with Velen's request for her aid was just annoying her even more.

Which reminded her: the prince was dying. Katrana snatched two more books and popped the last one open in her arms, sifting idly through the pages. It was all for effect, of course—a show for the agent so that she did not get restless. Just mundane, boring old Katrana Prestor, milling through her books and her reagents and her relics, _again_.

She snapped the book closed and swept out of the study. She was not the least bit surprised when she felt the agent's eyes trained on her, following her through the halls. But where this girl didn't know Dragonsreach inside out, Katrana did, and without suspicion, she weaved through corridor after corridor with a definite purpose to her step. She went about it quickly, too, nodding at guardsmen as she passed and stopping in rooms to gather reagents and remedies for Velen's plight, all as though it weren't just part of the play to leave Wrathion's agent none the wiser.

And eventually, in the lower levels of Dragonsreach, where the keep was colder as the earth wrapped around it, Katrana could feel the agent's scrutiny no longer. She smiled and disappeared into a room up the hall, setting two of her three books and all her collected things on a small cot. It looked to be one of the servant's beds. Katrana didn't care. She opened the last book in her hand—the second one she'd chosen from the shelf—and flipped through it until she found where the pages had been cut out in a square. A small, circular device sat wedged in the hole, cold after so long without use.

Katrana plucked it out of the book and smiled, turning it around in her hand. If this was the game Wrathion wanted to play, then two could play it.

She flipped open the small door on the front of the device. The pinkish soul gem inside flickered to life, and silently, Katrana's mind reached out to find its twin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [dragon translations](http://textuploader.com/va4v), though in this case i'd venture to say you can probably read them yourself by now, but i've been writing the word "dovahkiin" for months and i STILL completely misspelled it the other day so you're good.
> 
> moving on!
> 
> alternate title: It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Northrend. (Nii Los Gonah Wah Frolok Aan Kung Med Bromkroz.)
> 
> [as you can see](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3440138/chapters/7570472#chapter_3_endnotes) i never get sick of doing that.
> 
> part of me really wanted to ignore the civil war questline but then other parts of me started getting ideas so now it's a subplot ok civil war you WIN are you HAPPY. but frankly we have bigger problems. does arthas breathe fire? can arthas FLY? I DIDN'T THINK SO. ~~he only has an entire undead legion at his command but whatever at least they can't fly.~~
> 
> so i wasn't the only one who ignored the greybeards' summons for like three in-game months right.


	16. Lost Osos Sahvot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **content warnings:** blood, body horror(??); mentions of death and surgery/amputation

Chapter 16: Lost Osos Sahvot  
"Have a Little Faith"

———Hearth Fire 11th———

_Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap..._

Wrathion stared at the ceiling, though his eyes were unseeing. He was far away within himself, his mind more of a physical room to him than the actual one he laid in the bed of. His thoughts sat on clear display around him—some shelved, or hung on the wall, or even strewn about the floor. Some, however, sat on the bed with him, or in his lap. A select few were clutched in his hands, if just for a moment, before he moved on to others.

_Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap... Tap._

Eleven fifty-eight.

The numbers were brief in his mind, before they were pushed aside so that he could start counting again, in rhythm with his fingernail that _tap, tap, tapped_ on the nightstand beside him.

One. Two. Three. Four...

That was only one hand, though. The other, with fingers curled, mulled through thought after thought. Most had to do with the oncoming meeting with his 'old friend', as he'd referred to him with Right. In all honesty, he was more used to the man seeking him out, not the other way around. Wrathion wasn't even sure he'd _be_ in Riften. It was an educated guess, but that left an uncomfortable amount of room for error.

Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five...

But if he wasn't here, his colleagues certainly would be. And they owed him, he was sure, so they'd tell him where his old friend had gotten to. Probably. He screwed up his nose. More uncertainty. More _setbacks_ —would they _ever_ end? It seemed to be a theme with him now. Even something as long ago as Helgen was a setback, really. The city's fall had consequently stopped him from diving into the depths of Valthume, after all. It were as though Helgen was just some kind of omen. A catalyst.

Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine...

Eleven fifty-nine.

No matter. If his friend wasn't in Riften, his colleagues would point him in the right direction. And if they didn't, Wrathion would sniff the rogue out himself. He found the first dragon in centuries, after all. Well—technically Deathwing had camped out on a wall above his head, and Creed in the floor of Bleak Falls. It was more like he accidentally stumbled upon them. But he still _found_ them.

And Wrathion would find him too.

_Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap..._

"Midnight."

Wrathion's eyes focused; the ceiling turned clear. He blinked, and without lifting his head he looked down his chest. Across the room, sitting in a chair tugged halfway away from the table, was Right. She stared back at him with that same flat expression. If she'd napped, as she said she would, Wrathion had managed to miss it.

"Keeping time as well, I see," Wrathion said, smirking. With a lunge he sat upright in bed, crossing one leg over the other until they were tucked snugly into place. "I hope you're rested."

Right only blinked. Though her expression hadn't changed in the slightest, Wrathion could feel the impatience hidden behind her eyes. Not even his guards could deal with his games forever, it seemed. Very well.

Wrathion untangled his legs and leapt from the bed. He locked his fingers and threw his arms over his head, stretching his back until his shoulder blades popped to his satisfaction. He took a glance at the door, then frowned. No, actually, he didn't want to head through the tavern. Even this late, there could be too many eyes, and he had rather enjoyed getting away from Riften's perpetual scrutiny for the last few hours.

So he turned and swung open the window, lodging a foot on the edge and, with one swift motion, launching out into the dark street below. Right was just behind him, not raising a question; she already knew the answer. Wrathion shuddered as Skyrim made her claim on the Rift clear: though it was not all that cold during the day, it was _just_ as frigid at night as anywhere else.

He used the chilly air as incentive to hurry. His walk was brisk and purposeful as he past through the market, the stalls locked and unmanned. He continued through the quiet city until he reached a staircase that descended to the putrid canals, though he had long since given up complaining about the smell. He made his way through, silently, and was grateful, for just a moment, to push aside the barred door and escape the wind. Then the stench of the Ratway hit him, a dozen times worse than outside. His nose wrinkled and his eyes threatened to water; he covered his face with a hand, cringing, but made no scene besides, except to glance at Right. She was unfazed, of course.

The Ratway was a sewer system, or so was claimed. It _was_ a sewer system, but it housed jail cells. Long ago, decades ago, it was a proper prison, and a damned good one. Malfurion's elite guard, unique from the sentinels, oversaw the Ratway with conviction. Little got in, and less got out. At one time, they had even jailed Malfurion's renegade brother here. But the Ratway of today was a known shadow of its former self—perhaps only Malfurion himself, and the Wardens of course, pretended it had not collapsed into a safe haven to camps of criminals and factions he detested. Bandits, thieves—anyone who needed a place to hide. And the Ratway _was_ the place. Wrathion had only memorized a handful of routes and markers throughout the rancid tunnels. The rest were a mystery, a labyrinth that forbade escape, and one he had very little desire to investigate. Mostly because of the smell, but also because... Well.

A smirk swept up his face as a cobblestone clicked under Wrathion's foot. Right gripped his shoulder and yanked him backwards as a row of spears jutted out of the wall, effectively barring the way. She squinted, barely, and without looking away from the spears, spoke.

"Are you testing me."

" _Psh_ ," Wrathion snorted. "I wouldn't test you in such a heart-stopping fashion."

"Uh-huh," she said, unconvinced. "Next time I'm going to let it skewer you."

"It wasn't a test!"

"No _lo'igra_."

Wrathion's ears perked at the language; he hadn't heard Yoku in ages. He grinned. "Dua trai sen ra," he answered, as he turned toward the tunnel again.

His smile flickered at the spears still stretched across the corridor, their sharpened tips perhaps half a foot from the opposite wall. As he'd been thinking before, the Ratway's intricate system was annoying to learn both because of how it smelled, and because of how many traps laid waste to it these days. Taking care not to bump the pressure plate on the floor a second time, Wrathion reached through two of the spears and felt around for the reset switch on the other side.

"As I was saying, it _wasn't_ a test," he said, his face becoming more contorted by annoyance the longer he fumbled for the switch. "I'm knocking."

"By springing traps," Right said with a markedly raised eyebrow.

"It'll get their attention the quickest," he said, then hissed. He couldn't reach it.

Right stuck her own arm through and tapped the switch. A stone shifted and the spears shrieked, retracting into the right wall. Wrathion yanked his arm back before the bladed ends could slice him.

"Watch your step," he teased, pressing on.

Something splashed and squealed up the corridor—a rat, Wrathion figured. How appropriate. He stepped over a disheveled bedroll on the floor, half-submerged in a puddle of repulsive color. Wrathion had stayed in many unnerving places, but he had to admit, it took a certain kind of bravery to sleep in the Ratway. Or perhaps desperation. It wasn't exactly a pleasant place to live in its heydays either.

"What help do you think your 'friend' is going to be?" Right asked.

"You know he's well-versed in dragons," Wrathion said with a proud smirk. "Why, he taught me most of what I know. Of dragons _and_ daggers."

Right hummed. "Did you know him before Skyrim? You did by the time I met you."

"No," he said. "But he was perhaps the first person I met upon my arrival."

"How sentimental," she said flatly.

He gave an amused breath, but the smile that accompanied it was as hollow as her words. "Yes, I suppose."

The air felt heavier. Wrathion couldn't tell if it was just a gust of the sewer's stench—wet dog, he noted—or Right scrutinizing his tone. Either way, he distracted himself with a shut gate.

"Who closed this," he fussed, flinging the door aside. "Honestly, I'd thought its hinge was—"

"Wrathion!"

He stopped mid-step, wavering on his left foot. The right fell hard behind him, the impact enough to distill the floor. A sharp metal _SNAP_ went off only an inch or two from his foot. His eyes shot down, spotted the clenched teeth of a bear trap and felt his mind blur at the bludgeoning revelation that those very teeth had nearly bitten into his leg. He stumbled away from the trap and its friends, five in total. His shoulders were caught in hands and he reeled back forward, but Right tightened her grip on him.

"Stop flailing," she said, her voice suddenly so quiet Wrathion almost didn't hear it through the rushing blood in his ears.

" _Gods_ ," Wrathion sputtered, jerking still in Right's grip, despite her warning. "Who in their _right mind_ decided t—"

She moved one of her hands from his shoulder to his face, clamping his teeth together by cupping his jaw and shutting it. He snarled indignantly until she spoke. " _Stop_. We have company."

Wrathion lifted his head toward her, then back down into the room. His whole body stopped at the sight of a very, _very_ big nord rising from a hay bale against the wall. He lacked a shirt—Wrathion momentarily wondered if he'd _fit_ in a shirt, as every muscle bulged as if even his own flesh struggled to contain him.

"Ah," the hulking nord sighed, grinning. "Fresh meat."

Impulsively, Wrathion swallowed, and then forced a smile that tweaked every inch of his face in all the wrong ways.

"Oh," he said. "Apologies. I didn't see—"

The nord came barreling forward. Any lingering unease vanished as Wrathion lunged to the left, Right simultaneously splitting the opposite direction. The nord crashed against the wall, hard enough to crack and crumble the stone. Wrathion decided it best to pretend the wall's age was to blame. As the nord began prying himself from his crater, Wrathion's hand swept down to the dagger on his hip.

"Do you think he's affiliated with the Guild?" Wrathion called to Right.

She, like him, didn't take her eyes off the nord. "Doubtful."

He frowned. He'd hoped it was just him.

The nord groaned, reclaiming Wrathion's full attention. The grip on his knife hilt tightened, but he grinned pleasantly.

"I hadn't meant to intrude," he said. "I'm only passing throu..."

He stopped, furrowing his eyebrows. The nord had turned somewhat blurry in his vision, and it took a swipe of cold air at his back to realize why. His eyes shot around the room, noting the curling blue-white mist that draped the floor in a thin sheet. Wrathion squinted.

"Fog...?"

"Look out!" Right called.

Wrathion's head fired up, just in time to register the nord charging at him. He moved to dodge only to feel the frigid grip of the fog weighing him down. His heart skipped a beat and, with the nord only moments from impact, acted without thinking.

" **Fus**!"

The Shout collided with the nord, but by then he was so close that, even though it sent the giant backwards, it just as easily knocked Wrathion off his own feet. He hit the ground with a snarl, fluffy tufts of something—he assumed hay—pluming into the air. At least he was without the weight of the nord pulverizing him too. The nord didn't crash into a wall this time, able to break his momentum first. He gave a snarling laugh and turned back to Wrathion, who struggled to crawl back, but the fog was like a thousand frozen hands rooting him to the floor. He fumbled for the lost grip of his sheathed dagger.

The sharp end of a bolt spiked out of the nord's shoulder, spattering drops of blood against Wrathion's face. He winced, the slight sound lost under the nord's angry growl as he flipped around. Right materialized behind him, in front of Wrathion, reloading her crossbow with a precision and speed that almost had the fog shifting away from her in hissing frustration.

Speaking of the fog, it was up to Wrathion's elbows now. Where was it coming from? It had to be some kind of magic, that much was obvious. His fingertips ached at the cold, even underneath his leather gloves. Another snarl appeared from the mist, and Wrathion could just make out the nord's eyes in the abyss.

"Little girl," he said, amused and somewhat pained, "you shouldn't have—"

Right, blank-faced, shot him again, sending him reeling back in pain. A sharp laugh escaped Wrathion's throat before he could even register it, but it was quickly silenced as the fog hissed against hot blue-gray rolls of smoke. Right tensed at the sound of splitting flesh and breaking bones, but neither she nor Wrathion could see through the snarling fumes. She didn't pause as she reloaded her crossbow a second time. Despite the claws of the fog sinking into him, Wrathion tried to draw himself back, only for his fingers to slip on the same tufts that had burst into the air before. His fingers curled around the strands of hay and he went to cast them aside, but found they were blue-gray, not yellow. Not twiggy, like hay, but coarse, like...

_Fur?_

Something more beast than man rumbled from the darkness. Wrathion cinched, and he could only open his mouth before a blur of black exploded out of the smoke, unfazed by the third, panicked arrow that pierced it, and struck Right in the face and shoulder. A ribbon of blood was her only wake as she was launched to the left, vanishing in the fog. Wrathion felt his throat shut when he tried again to call out. The hissing fog stole back his attention, his eyes firing toward the black smudge of smoke and hair that emerged from the cold mist. A row of wolfish teeth grinned at him, long, swiveling ears pinned back in assured anger as blood dripped from the bolts in his shoulder and chest.

Again, Wrathion was helpless to disobey his impulse to swallow.

"Oh," he managed lamely. "Worgen. How delightful."

The beast chuckled at him. Wrathion shifted, hoping to fetch his dagger, but the nord was sharp and he lunged forward. Wrathion could only just dodge out of the way, with fog gripping him all the while. The stone floor gave a disconcerting _crack_ as the worgen collided with it, snarling and faintly whining. Wrathion tried to rise to his feet, but the fog held him down, staggering him. What _was_ this loathsome spell?

The worgen swept around to face him, pushing a wave of the fog over him. Wrathion shuddered and pulled himself back; he felt thin sheets of ice shatter off him with every motion. His arms and legs ached in the frigid grip of the mist. He felt sluggish, and disturbingly brittle. The worgen stalked closer and Wrathion snarled, lip curling.

" **Yol**!" he snapped, sending a spurt of fire forth.

The fog hissed and curled away from the Shout, but much like how the collision of Wrathion's frost breath with the draugr's fire in Bleak Falls had defused both Shouts, the cold mist ate away the flame in moments. The whiteness coiled around Wrathion again, making the encroaching frostbite flare painfully in his limbs.

"Bad little pup," the worgen growled through a grin that looked too much like it wanted to tear into Wrathion.

"Honestly," he fussed, reining back his aggravation and that faint sense of _wariness_ (and certainly not anything else,) "dog puns? Spare me."

The worgen just laughed—a guttural, feral sound all by itself, when distorted by his grotesque form. Frankly, it sounded a bit too much like a dragon's voice for Wrathion's liking. He tried to shift back, but the fog icing over his body was becoming thicker, making it difficult to move at all, let alone discreetly, as the sheets cracked and shattered with each movement. The worgen growled hungrily.

"What do they call you?" Wrathion asked, stalling, and cursed his raised tone.

"Ripsnarl," the worgen answered.

He _had_ to be joking. "' _Ripsnarl_ '? You—"

Ripsnarl lunged forward, and with this damned fog, Wrathion only barely made it away from the worgen's teeth and safely to the left, and not without an embarrassing yelp. Maybe the worgen's name was ridiculous, but it seemed to be wholly appropriate.

Now standing on all fours, Ripsnarl turned himself toward Wrathion again. He was able to continue dragging himself backwards, now that the ice was utterly broken, and so long as he kept moving it struggled to crust over him, though the painful cold itself was enough to slow him down anyway. He felt suffocated as the mist curled somewhere short of his collarbone, and it made each motion unnecessarily labored. The worgen didn't seem affected by it. Wrathion blamed the fur coat.

"How about a story, then?" Ripsnarl asked, chuckling. He glanced Wrathion over. "Those bright red eyes of yours give me an idea."

Wrathion's face turned indignant, despite this being the very least of his problems, but he knew what the damned dog was about to say. "Don't—"

"Little Red and the Big," he took a heavy step forward, "Bad," and another, "Wolf."

Wrathion hated worgen.

Ripsnarl took another threatening step and then snarled—the sound startled Wrathion, as it was far angrier than his arrogant tone from a moment ago. It took Wrathion a second to realize a fourth crossbow bolt was sticking out of his previously uninjured shoulder, coated in blood, but there was some other liquid mixed in, a greenish-black when drowned in red.

"Right?" Wrathion yelled into the fog, questioningly, but if his agent heard, she didn't answer him.

Ripsnarl turned on his fours, and just past him, Wrathion saw a figure in the fog, too big to be Right. Ripsnarl barreled forward, toward the stranger, and for a moment, Wrathion lost them as they blurred out of sight. So did Ripsnarl, evidently, as he fumbled on his feet in a way that almost struck Wrathion as careless. There was movement in the corner of his eye, and a second later another bolt materialized from the fog, whisking past the worgen as he dodged, shoddily, and only barely. Ripsnarl growled.

Wrathion looked toward the movent. The figure was closer; he recognized their red ponytail even in the dull mist. Excitement exploded in him like a flame and he grinned.

"Fahrad!"

"Bastard," Ripsnarl growled, quickly reclaiming Wrathion's attention.

The worgen went to charge, but stumbled badly on his feet instead and groaned. He tried again, but nearly fell. Black smoke burst off his skin, shrouding him. Wrathion flinched and sat forward.

"What—"

"He's shifting," Fahrad said, lowering his crossbow. "And poisoned."

Wrathion spat out one sharp laugh and leaned back again. "Poison!" he echoed.

Ripsnarl growled, but the noise was slurred and lacked its wolfish grit. Wrathion only became more ecstatic.

" _Sleep_ poison!" he said, grinning to the point his cheeks hurt. Of course! The worgen form relied on an adrenaline rush. "You're _brilliant_ , Fahrad!"

The rogue smirked in response. The smoke dispersed again, revealing the nord Wrathion had faced earlier. He staggered drunkenly, his jaw clenched and his face wrinkled in a lopsided grimace. He glared at Fahrad, though struggled to keep his eyes open.

"Gods-damned Thieves Guild," Ripsnarl hissed, the words nearly lost to his slurring voice.

Fahrad raised his crossbow, casually on his way to reload it. Ripsnarl growled, louder this time, but he backed away. The mist thickened, crushing the room with a frigid breeze that made Wrathion shrink back. Ripsnarl's shape vanished within it, and moments later, the white abyss began to recede rapidly, as did the cold. The rush of returning warmth made Wrathion's body shudder with relief. Ripsnarl was gone, with only the blood and fur on the floor to testify that he was ever there. Wrathion sighed, and relaxed now that he could feel his fingertips again.

It was short-lived, however, when he remembered his agent. "Right," he blurted, glancing all around the room.

As if it were some sort of signal, Fahrad gave a startled grunt that earned Wrathion's attention, just as the rogue reached behind himself and snatched the wrist of the Dragonborn's agent. Fahrad yanked her right over his shoulder, and despite the heavy bleeding from her head, she twisted, in mid-air, landing pristinely on her feet and wringing her arm out of Fahrad's grip. He moved forward to apprehend her; she kicked out her leg into his stomach and snatched a dagger from her hip, all in one practiced motion. Fahrad hit the wall and Right pinned him at the neck under her forearm, her blade threatening the soft skin underneath his chin.

It all happened in a matter of moments, leaving Wrathion scrambling for words. "STOP, stop— _gods_ , Right, he's one of mine! It's Fahrad!"

Fahrad snorted from his nose, but only barely; any harder a sound would have his skin pricked on Right's knife. Right scrutinized the rogue for a moment, then in a flash she was off him, dagger sinking back into its scabbard with a grating hiss. Fahrad rubbed his neck and did not miss Right's lingering glare before it too disappeared in the blink of an eye.

"'One of yours'," she echoed, and scoffed.

Wrathion groaned and rolled his eyes, hopping to his feet. "Fahrad," he greeted, the pleasant sound of his voice stark against the dawdling frustration in his eyes.

"Dragonborn," Fahrad answered, though his eyes remained on Right, and hers on his.

"Forgive her," Wrathion said, with evident aggravation. "It's been a long time, and she's had a bad night."

The statement seemed to remind Right of her injury, as she went to prod her head and winced at the bleeding cut there. She dismissed her glaring contest with Fahrad to address the damage.

"No harm, no foul," Fahrad said, and finally looked at Wrathion. "I heard commotion in the Ratway, but I didn't expect to find you."

"No?"

"Not with your dragons finally taking the stage."

Wrathion gave a smirk that didn't reach his eyes. "Understandable. I've already slain one, though."

Fahrad glanced him over and grinned, nervously, worried for the Dragonborn. "Have you, now? How was it?"

"Good," he replied earnestly. " _Very_ good."

"Well," Fahrad laughed once, "happy birthday to you."

Wrathion's mouth snapped closed. He blinked once, sharply, then sloped his eyebrows hard. "My birthday was two weeks ago."

"You weren't here two weeks ago."

"I killed it on the _thirty-first_."

"The first," Right corrected. "After midnight."

"Whatever!"

Fahrad grinned. "Then we're both late."

"Ugh." Wrathion rolled his eyes.

"I hear there're more," Fahrad said.

Wrathion made a face and straightened himself. "Yes. Perhaps challenging two at once was a little... optimistic of me. One escaped. Unfortunately, the especially daunting one."

Fahrad scoffed, amused. "As luck would have it."

"As luck would have it," Wrathion agreed. "But! You've always been of great insight to me, and I am not one to let my resources go to waste."

"Well, aren't I flattered?" Fahrad sneered playfully.

"You should be," Wrathion smirked again. "Might we talk somewhere more private?"

He crooked an eyebrow. "You _really_ want to head to the Flagon?"

"Of course," Wrathion said, obviously, and squinted at the question. "Why not?"

Fahrad resisted most of a laugh; only traces of it clung to his breath. "Nothing."

"The Guild owes me," Wrathion argued.

" _Owes_ you? For what?"

"Something!"

That time Fahrad couldn't contain the laughter. He turned and started toward the door on the opposite end of the room, away from the entrance armed with bear traps. "Fine, fine. You'll have to, er... jog their memory, though."

Wrathion rumbled irritably in the back of his throat. He glanced at Right, who was staring intently at Fahrad as he continued to move on. "What's the matter with you?" he hissed.

She didn't look at him. "You know what."

He rolled his eyes again. "Well, quit it," he snapped, moving to follow Fahrad.

Right, to his momentary shock, grabbed his elbow. "Wrathion—"

" _Quit it_ ," he repeated, snarling, and ripped his arm free. "Honestly, have a little faith in me."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "No lo'igra?" she said with an aggravating bit of sarcasm.

He glowered at her, then swept around and continued after Fahrad. Right snorted, still irritated. She rested her hand on the hilt of her dagger and followed suit, her eyes locking on the back of Fahrad's head once more.

———Hearth Fire 12th———

"King Varian?"

Varian startled. His eyes focused and the room sharpened, washed of most color in the darkness, with the moonlight flickering through the window for a reason he couldn't immediately place. His body felt stiff, muscles popping with even the slightest movement. He didn't know how long he'd been sitting there with his mind somewhere far away. It was colder than he remembered, but it didn't quite reach him.

He lifted his head and saw Velen across the bed, his illuminated eyes nearly as dull as the room. Exhaustion scarred the color of them and the sagging skin beneath them. Varian found himself feeling more like he was staring at a mirror, not the prophet. He shook his head, burying his face in a hand, elbow perched on the armchair he sat in.

"Sorry," he blurted out, his voice heavy. "Come again?"

"I said it's raining," Velen answered. He nodded at the window, and when Varian looked, he saw the pouring storm in the dead night, explaining the rippling moonlight. It seemed even Kynareth sent Her condolences to Whiterun.

"So it is," he said absently. His face sunk back into his hand and he sighed from a deep place in his chest. The daze he'd slipped into was numb; the cold, weighted room was not.

He glanced past his fingers to the bed, where Anduin Wrynn laid. Nearly ten days since he'd come home, and he hadn't so much as stirred save for their one, single, tiny moment in the Temple. Varian was assured by those more educated in life and magic that he lived, but if he did, he almost didn't look it. His skin was colorless, his hair frayed and dull, his eyes tucked away and becoming hard to recall the color of. He breathed, but Varian had to focus to see the small proof in the rise and fall of his chest.

Varian was angry at some point. He'd been angry at a lot of things. Some, like the dragon, were justifiable. Others, like Velen and Taylor, not so much. But he'd been angry at all of them at some point or another. Now, though, he was too tired to so much as cry. He could only wait, on the brink of reality and some lost plane in his mind, for something to change. He would never dare say it, and somewhere deep down he loathed himself for it, but he wished _anything_ would change.

For ten days time stood still, with Anduin alive but not really, and dead but not quite.

It was a miracle his son was even _home_ , but one that, to even Varian's shock, came as bittersweet. A tired, weak, miserable part of him would not stop asking if perhaps it would've been better if Anduin's suffering had ended, though tragically, in Helgen. He teetered between this world and another, and everyone knew Varian wanted him to live, but he'd never admit that he found some comfort in the pain Anduin would escape if he did not. Varian had seen the pain himself, after all. He stayed for every second of the surgery in the Temple. He didn't watch most of the process itself, but he watched Anduin, _heard_ Anduin. He wasn't sure if his son could escape the pain in his sleep, as Varian could escape the cold in his dazes.

Knocking came to the door. It was gentle, nearly inaudible under the rain, but Varian flinched anyway. Velen, in better position on the opposite side of the bed, looked up. "Come in."

The door opened, and Varian didn't look away from Anduin, but he knew who entered. He recognized the way her feet clopped on the floor, unique from the steel boots of a guard or the leather shoes of a servant. She had been helping Velen since he returned to Dragonsreach, even after most of the busy priests had to go back to the Temple, so her arrival here was unsurprising to Varian.

"Umbrua," Velen greeted, and gestured her over. "Is that?"

"Lady Katrana asked me to bring it," Umbrua, now in Varian's peripheral vision, answered the prophet. She set a small crate of things down at the table Velen had brought up to Anduin's bedside days ago. "She hopes it will help."

"Thank you," Velen said.

Umbrua spared a glance at Anduin. Varian saw her frown. She said something he didn't understand, likely in draenei. Velen nodded solemnly. After that, Umbrua left, her departure nearly silent save for her hooves on the wood floor. Velen leaned over and began looking through the contents of the crate. Finally, Varian looked up.

"What is that?" he asked.

"Katrana's insight," Velen answered. "She looked into some old remedies for me—"

"' _Old_ remedies'?" Varian echoed, his energy flaring for the first time in ages.

"Back when dragons roamed," Velen clarified, successfully deflating the king's momentary alarm. The prophet unfolded a note; instructions left by Katrana. "Perhaps someone from that time will know a trick about dragon fire that healers today have forgotten."

Varian rubbed his mouth, the previous anxiety still curling uncomfortably in his chest. He glanced at Anduin again, who remained as still as the furniture in the room. Varian had to search for the rise and fall of his chest. "And..."

Velen looked up at the king. He saw hesitation in Varian's eyes, his mouth still clasped behind his hand as he stared down at his son. It was as though he was afraid of the consequences that would come with asking his question; as if doing so would permanently alter the rest of time from then on. Velen found himself dreading the question.

"If not?" the king finally managed.

Velen frowned. The room got a bit heavier. He sighed, lowering his head again.

"Have faith."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [translations](http://textuploader.com/iz1g)
> 
> i refuse to believe not even one of you guessed fahrad was the friend ok where are you it's time to brag.
> 
> also fun fact i have a headcanon birthday for wrathion. less fun fact: i only made the headcanon recently and realized too late the date had already passed in the fanfic. so here's me working it back in with the grand (master (hehehe)) excuse that fahrad wasn't here on the 28th of last seed so he couldn't say happy birthday then but he CAN NOW because he is a GOOD DAD.
> 
> ((who the hell knows who wrathion's dad is, since it's PROBABLY not the dragon that wasn't here 18 years ago, [despite any passing comments from hadvar](http://elderscrolls.wikia.com/wiki/Hadvar#Quotes).))
> 
> also somebody asked me if anduin was eating his vegetables and i can now safely confirm, without spoiling anything, that anduin is definitely not eating his vegetables. sorry!


	17. Qethhe Wah Kren

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **content warnings:** death, blood/gore, burns, body horror

Chapter 17: Qethhe Wah Kren  
"Bones to Pick"

———Hearth Fire 12th———

"Where are you taking him? Get back here!"

"Fahrad, I swear to all Nine, that whelp's gonna get you dead one day!"

"The little bastard owes us thousands, Fahrad! _Thousa_ —"

Right shut the door and fell back against it, successfully stifling the commotion outside. She blew a lock of loose hair out of her face and slumped some against the door. Wrathion scoffed, flicking drops of ale off his shoulder from when one of the rogues had splashed the whole mug on him. He straightened his cloak, twisted awkwardly after it'd been snatched. It was torn at the bottom, now—the first of many scars it would endure, Wrathion was certain.

" _Well_ ," he said, feigning nonchalance.

"So much for owing you," Right grumbled.

He snorted hostilely at her. "They're probably just bitter about last time."

"And the time before that," Fahrad pointed out. He paused, thinking, then cupped his chin. "And before that, come to think of it. And—"

"Shut up," Wrathion snarled. Fahrad smirked, making him roll his eyes. " _But_ ," he spat the word pointedly, "now we can talk."

"Yes," Fahrad said, squinting briefly. "Talk. About?"

"Neltharion."

There was a single moment where time paused. A moment where Wrathion's bright eyes darkened, and Right's attention sharpened. A moment where Fahrad didn't breathe.

When it passed and the room moved once more, Wrathion's eyes narrowed. "You know who he is."

Fahrad grinned and gave an uncomfortable laugh. "I've _heard_ of him, sure."

"Het nok un mahlaan drogge, erei suleyk se _Neltharion_ vokrii ," Wrathion recited. He had not allowed himself to forget the name inscribed on the dragonstone twice.

Fahrad's face hardened when it became clear that the lightheartedness of their earlier conversation was long gone. "Well, doesn't he sound powerful? What's that quote?"

"From a relic," Wrathion said. "One I don't have with me, but that doesn't matter. It was buried in a tomb belonging to dragon worshippers. You can imagine who their 'fallen lords' must have been."

Fahrad sighed. "I can."

"But Neltharion—" Wrathion stopped himself. His eyes left Fahrad as he thought about something. The rogue witnessed a trace of uncertainty, or perhaps hesitation, before he spoke again. "I am unfamiliar with any dragons of that name," he said, but he sounded unsure even of that claim. He looked at Fahrad again. "What do you know?"

Fahrad held his breath again, this time only to restrain another sigh. "I know he was one of the more powerful dragons, and that it was believed he would return to the world one day, but you probably got that from your relic."

"'Until the power of Neltharion revives them'," Wrathion repeated absently, his eyes drifting away again. He remembered his conversation with Anduin Wrynn; the prince's theory that Deathwing had resurrected Creed by way of necromancy. That could potentially explain how he appeared, just as it could potentially explain any future dragons Wrathion were to encounter, but it did not explain where Deathwing came from. Was it possible this Neltharion had something to do with it? Was it possible Deathwing _was_ Neltharion?

Neither one explained where _Neltharion_ had come from though.

Wrathion growled to himself. He needed that dragonstone—none of his agents had sent him any report regarding it since deploying them in Dragonsreach. But there _had_ to be more to it than that quote.

"They called him World Breaker."

His eyes shot back to Fahrad. "What?"

"Lein Kreniik," Fahrad said.

Then they _were_ the same.

"How powerful?" Wrathion asked, recalling Fahrad's earlier insight.

The rogue looked apologetic, shrinking some. "I don't—"

" _How powerful_ is he, Fahrad?"

Fahrad paused. He looked away, thinking, and Wrathion nearly snapped again.

"According to legend," Fahrad started, hesitating, "Neltharion wanted to conquer the world. Tamriel, Nirn—all of Mundus. And he nearly did. It's believed that if events hadn't played out the way they had, he would have succeeded."

Wrathion breathed. Something twisted painfully in his stomach. He ignored it. "What events?"

"The rebellion of other dragons," Fahrad said. "The ones that taught the nords about the Thu'um."

"Well that hardly seems helpful _now_ ," Wrathion hissed. He crossed his arms and rubbed his face in a hand, sighing hard. The twisting anxiety in his stomach hadn't gone away.

"Does it?" Fahrad said. "What makes you think some wouldn't betray their own again?"

At this, Wrathion started laughing into his hand—a rattling, baffled fit. He lifted his head, crushing the mystified sound in his throat. "No," he said.

"Why—"

"You're suggesting I _bargain_ with them? With _dragons_?"

" _Negotiate_ ," Fahrad corrected. "And I know you're no idiot, Wrathion—you can see the benefit of having a dragon, of having _dragons_ as your allies."

"You're out of your mind!" Wrathion yelled, grinning and on the brink of laughing again, but there was anger in his voice. "I will not— _not_ stoop to my knee before a _dragon_!"

"Think of the _power_ you cou—"

"The _only_ power I need is _MINE_!"

Fahrad, his arms raised with his voice and his face contorted in frustration, opened his mouth to argue further. A familiar _shink_ stopped him from taking another step. He shot a glare at Right, who still leaned on the door, her thumb on the crossguard of her dagger and the blade peeking out of the scabbard. Her hard expression didn't waver even as Fahrad looked at her, and even at their distance, he could see every muscle in her tensed and coiled, ready to spring at his next mistake.

So he sighed— _hissed_ , more like—and dropped his arms, stepping back. Right released the crossguard, and the dagger slipped back into its sheath. Wrathion seemed almost oblivious to the exchange, lost to his disgust with Fahrad's suggestion.

"It was the help of the dragons that stopped Neltharion once," Fahrad said, his voice forcibly leveled, and by consequence, rigid. "They defea—"

"They taught the nords to Shout," Wrathion cut in pointedly. One arm remained crossed over his chest, his other elbow perched on it and his hand hovering idly near his face. "It was not dragons, Fahrad, it was the Thu'um. Which—oh," he grinned, and it did not come close to his eyes, " _I have_."

"And you've come a great way with it," Fahrad said, exasperated, "but think of what you could do with the Voices of dragons at your disposal."

"I'd rather not," Wrathion snarled. "It makes me nauseous."

"Dragonborn—"

"Keep it up!" he grinned again, as angry as before. "I'll let Right and her knife have their way with you!"

 _Shink_.

Fahrad restrained a growl. "Fine," he said with that rigid voice. "Have it your way."

"I will." Wrathion uncrossed his arms, popping the tense frustration out of his neck and shoulders. He sighed—a jarringly pleasant noise, given the argument just moments ago—and smiled just the same at Fahrad. "Now, back to Neltharion."

Fahrad opened his mouth, but Wrathion raised a hand, and a sharp warning look crossed his eye.

"Say something that will help me find out who he is and how to destroy him. Make it clever; Right has been _such_ a good agent to me. I really would like to reward her."

Fahrad risked another glance at Right, who only glared back at him. Wrathion's smile turned faintly dark.

"Don't give me an excuse to."

The rogue straightened, but did so cautiously, ever-aware of the agent that watched his every move. He sighed, an equally stiff noise—not unlike the one he'd made when standing at the end of Right's dagger before.

"His Wall."

Wrathion's friendly mask vanished, replaced with evident confusion and that hidden anger from before. "Who's Wall— _what_ Wall?" he said, on the brink of a hiss.

"Neltharion's Wall," Fahrad said. "A mural built by the Akaviri—the Dragonguard, specifically. The, you know..." He nodded at Right, who scoffed in response.

"Dragonguard," she repeated. "They're extinct."

"You're standing right in front of me, girl."

"Blacktalons," she said coolly, "are not Dragonguard."

His lip curled in a mock-grin. "Different word, same job."

" _And_?" Wrathion said, his voice raised to reclaim Fahrad's attention. "What use could some ancient mural have now?"

"It documents Neltharion's demise and prophesized return." Fahrad smirked and gave a shrug. "You don't think that'd be valuable to you?"

Wrathion shifted his jaw. He crossed his arms and cupped his chin, thinking. "Where?"

At this, Fahrad held his breath. "That, I don't know. It's location has been lost for centuries."

Wrathion rolled his head back in aggravation. "How do you lose a _wall_?"

"Few remember anything about the Dragonguard," Fahrad offered. "What was left of them was wiped out with the White-Gold Concordat."

"That cringe-worthy treaty from thirty-some years ago?" Wrathion said, wincing with doubt. "I didn't realize the Dragonguard lasted that long."

"Their name turned to the Blades somewhere in history."

Wrathion nodded, understanding. The Blades he _had_ heard of, albeit barely. Protectors of the Cyrodilic Emperor—at least, until the treaty, apparently. That was about as much as he'd bothered to know. He grinned suddenly. "The Thalmor destroyed these Blades?"

"Disbanded them," Fahrad corrected absently. "And hated them. Part of the concordat grants them total power to do what they will with any discovered Blade."

Wrathion straightened, curious. "They remain!"

"Some," Fahrad said. He squinted, wary of Wrathion's excitement. "If they haven't been discreetly 'prosecuted' by the Thalmor, that is."

"The Thalmor must have _information_ regarding these remaining Blades, then, surely? Possibly..." his grin stretched, "their whereabouts?"

The question only made Fahrad all the more nervous. "What are you thinking?"

Wrathion's eyes glimmered, and Fahrad knew he had some ambitious idea. "Clever, Fahrad," was all he said.

Fahrad's eyebrow twitched, annoyed, but he relaxed at the implicit assurance regardless. "Wrathion—"

He heard the tone and threw up his hand, startling Fahrad's mouth shut. "Don't make me angry again."

Fahrad glared only from a place of concern, but deflated. Wrathion lowered his arm, but kept his warning glower on for a while longer. Honestly, he was so obsessed with this notion that Wrathion might _befriend_ them. Dragons! The very same animals laying waste to Skyrim as he bickered with the rogue about whether or not they could be _reasoned_ with. Of all things, Wrathion recalled Anduin Wrynn's attempts to make Creed see sense through his line of questioning. He scoffed. Perhaps they'd learn in time, once enough of their country burned—if it came to that.

He dismissed the frustrating thought and smiled, clasping his hands together. "One more thing!"

Fahrad winced, surprised by the shift. "Oh?"

"Soul gems," Wrathion said. His eyes glimmered; he was quite excited. "I need some."

Fahrad crooked an eyebrow. "'Some'?"

"Well, a lot. And since the Guild _owes_ me—"

"Would you stop with that?" Right snapped. "They'll barge in here if they hear you."

Fahrad laughed. He sounded tired. "I'll see what I can do and send one of your agents to deliver them. But, what do you want them for?"

"Oh," Wrathion paused, smiling mischievously. "For a project."

"Uh- _huh_ ," Fahrad said, unconvinced.

"Thank you!" Wrathion chimed, and turned to the door only to freeze mid-stride. He scrunched his eyebrows together.

Right saw the look and took advantage. "I'm not going back into that mob."

Wrathion glared at her. "Some Dragonguard you are."

" _Blacktalon_ , you little—"

"There's another way out," Fahrad offered. He gestured to another door on the opposite end of the room. "Empties out behind the mausoleum."

"Clever!" Wrathion said again, spinning around on a heel. "You've been a great help to me as usual. Well done, Fahrad."

The rogue gave a strained smile. "Whatever you need, Dragonborn. I'm here to help."

Wrathion smiled back at him, then gestured at Right to follow. "I'm tired."

Finally, the agent rose from the front wall of the room. Fahrad pulled open the back door and Wrathion was quick to slip by. Right passed in front of Fahrad without ever looking at the rogue, but he heard her dagger sink back into its scabbard and he scowled faintly at the message. They went a small ways through the corridor, until Wrathion stopped with an 'oh' under his breath and spun on a heel toward Fahrad, a finger raised.

"By the way," he started, "the sentinels at the front gate did me a favor and saved me a bit of trouble in return for a place on your good side."

Fahrad frowned deeply at him. "You're going to get me thrown in the canal if you keep exploiting the Guild like that."

"Thank you!" Wrathion said, grinning, then turned and continued on his way with Right. Though they whispered, the echoes carried their words to him anyway. "Really, Right, you're not willing to fend off a mob of bitter rogues for me? What kind of Dr—"

" _Don't_ say Dragonguard again. It's Blacktalon—it's your name, for gods' sakes."

"Hmph! Forget it. Now, I need you to rally agents for..."

Fahrad shut the door, casting out the rest of their conversation and leaving him with the silence. He stood there for a time, his hand still on the knob as his mind spun numbly. It slipped, falling still at his side. It was only when his mind perked, as if beckoned, that he startled, grounded in the now again.

He sighed and turned to the opposite door, where his aggravated Guild awaited. They'd be frustrated with him for letting the Dragonborn slip away, but he didn't much care about that.

"Soul gems," he reminded himself. He frowned, brushed a hand over his back pocket and went to confront the waiting Guild.

Would he ever listen?

———Hearth Fire 12th———

Alarion shivered.

The Rift wasn't as cold as most of Skyrim—the flourishing red trees were proof enough of that—but even as dawn was no more than a half-hour out, the night's frigid grip clung to the hold still. Alarion hated it; she much preferred the sanctity of Alinor. Its name was answer enough, as far as she was concerned.

But she was in Skyrim, not Alinor, and she'd just have to make do. Another rush of wind swiped past her. She hissed and tugged her cloak tighter around herself. She wasn't even supposed to be out here, but all of her other couriers were busy, and she was missing a runner who was supposed to be back from Riften yesterday. Alarion had forgiven the runner not returning by last night, but now she'd been gone for an entire day, and Alarion was at the end of her rope when it came to patience. The trip between Shor's Stone and Riften was not that far, not for one of her outrunners. Alarion just hoped she at least got Erona's package delivered before she apparently vanished into thin air.

She wrinkled her nose at the lingering cold and glanced up. It was foggy that morning. She wondered if she'd even _see_ Riften in the distance, or if it'd simply burst out of the abyss eventually. Hopefully it would clear up soon, and Alarion wouldn't have to worry about it. It did make the road a bit hard to follow, though. The mist curled around her ankles and obscured the cobble from view.

Her nose scrunched even more. She already missed her bed in Shor's Stone. And her fireplace.

Something crunched under her foot. The snap was sharp enough that she felt it break, stinging the ball of her foot even through her leather boot. She hissed and glanced down. Just a twig. She squinted through the fog though, and shifted her footing. She heard grass underneath her.

"Great," she growled to herself. She must have wandered off the road thanks to this damned haze. She swept a loose lock of hair behind her long ear, then glanced around for a glimpse of the cobblestones or perhaps a stray lamppost. As luck would have it, she found neither. "Just great."

Sparing a look behind her, Alarion decided to start tentatively making her way backwards. Maybe she'd simply stumble back onto the street and she could be on her way, albeit perhaps with a bit more care. The air was bitter today; it almost seemed worse than usual. She supposed the first clue was the fog. She'd never gotten lost like this.

Alarion wrinkled her nose again. She wasn't _lost_ —just a little disoriented. The road was no more than a few paces away, she was sure. She just had to find it.

There was another crack. Alarion glanced down, but found no stick underneath her foot. Her heart skipped a beat and she stopped, swiveling around for some sign of the source. Nothing presented itself, except for birch trees that jutted out of solid white voids. The feeling of lightness, of groundlessness was becoming distressing.

 _A rodent,_ she assured herself as she backed away from the sound. Perhaps a skeever—they were big enough to crack a twig of the size she heard, weren't they? She gave a shaken sigh to try and calm herself, her eyes trained on where she'd heard the sound come from. Glass cracked under her foot and she yelped. She moved her foot to find a bleeding vial of something—she knew exactly what. Turning around again, she knelt in front of the abandoned package. She peeled part of the broken wrapping away, revealing the damaged cargo inside, and frowned. Stupid girl. Alarion sighed and started to clean out the ruined reagents. Some of the contents were intact, so she carefully bundled those in the package and picked the whole thing up. At least she'd be able to deliver these for Erona.

A bush rustled. Alarion whipped her head up, just in time to glimpse a black blur before it vanished in the fog. She let out a startled yelp, staggering back to her feet. That was way too big to be a skeever.

"Who's there?" she snapped into the abyss. "Don't tease me!"

"Pardon my manners."

"Ah—!" Alarion shrieked, whirling around.

A man stood behind her—a nord, a safe foot taller than her. She couldn't tell if it was the fog that drained the pigment of his skin, or the bleeding holes in his bare chest. Alarion stumbled back some paces, clutching the package in her arms, though she didn't care if he planned to steal it. He could have it if that's what he was there for—Erona could replicate the order. Alarion found herself annoyed with him.

"By the Eight," she snarled at the nord. She straightened herself and snorted. "Don't go lurking around in the fog. I could've set fire to your—" she stopped herself because, though he _was_ hairy, she couldn't very well call what curled all over his chest _fur_ , "—um—to you. Don't be rude!"

The nord grinned at her. "My apologies. I thought I smelled something."

She cringed at him. Gross? "Well, just, keep it in mind." She shook her shoulders, reminiscent of a bird ruffling her feathers. "Now, if you'll excuse me."

She turned away from him, saw the white wall of fog and scowled. Right, she was still... _disoriented_. She turned back to the nord.

"Actually, maybe you can—"

She lost the words, and her nerve all together, as the nord was replaced with a giant black monster, who bent down and scooped a corpse off the ground, tossing it over his shoulder. Alarion didn't have to double check; she recognized her runner in an instant. The nord didn't acknowledge her again, as he drifted back into the fog and vanished from sight. Alarion didn't realize her feet had been carrying her backwards until she heard the cobble road under her boots. She glanced down, stupidly, then saw the package in her arms, and for the first time it all clicked together. She spun around and bolted for Riften, hardly realizing the fog was receding.

The high elf was dead weight in Ripsnarl's arms, but easy to haul over his wolfish form's shoulders and carry into the wilderness. His wounds burned against the morning cold, making him grit his teeth. Especially his poisoned right shoulder. It'd only been a sleep toxin—one he'd barely managed to outlast long enough to escape the rogue who had tainted him with it—but there seemed to be some stinging property in the mixture that had the edges of the wound prickling and hissing almost constantly.

He growled at the memory of the rogues. Especially Little Red, though _he_ was the only one that hadn't landed a hit on the worgen. It'd been the redguard's lackey and that Thieves Guild bastard. Maybe it'd been foolish to think he could hole up in the Guild's city, but he found that didn't make him any less angry. He grinned furiously at the memory of Little Red's voice, though, high and strained; his frantic yelps as he fought the fog and dodged away from Ripsnarl's attacks.

Ripsnarl chuckled to himself. He glanced at the dead elf on his back—he was certain she'd do. Ripsnarl only wished he could be there to see Little Red's face as his annoying friends were gutted before his eyes. He was sure the little child would have _plenty_ of delightful noises to make about that.

But what mattered more was getting them out of the way. He didn't want that girl of his interfering again, when he hunted Little Red down. The thought made him giddy—oh, he couldn't _wait_. There was something about the whelp, something about the way he smelled that had been _tantalizing_. And Ripsnarl was not going to pass up the opportunity to chew him to shreds himself.

The fog hissed and curled around his feet, sweeping by as if to hide behind him. Ripsnarl grinned at the sight in front of him—a circle of dry twigs, jabbed upright in the dirt, which he'd gathered himself and lit with a bit of flint. Hopefully she wasn't that picky about what did and didn't qualify as a candle. He had the more important part, he was certain. Ripsnarl passed into the circle of burning twigs. The fog hissed at the warmth of the small flames, angry that it was unable to follow the worgen into the circle. He dropped the high elf into the center, kicking her side to straighten her out some. He spotted a small knife on her hip and grinned. How thoughtful, now he wouldn't have to use his claws.

He knelt down and plucked the dagger off the elf's hip, unsheathing the blade and tossing the scabbard aside, where it vanished in the mist. Ripsnarl took a handful of Nightshade petals in his claws. He'd plucked it after emerging from the Ratway near the cemetery—the place was lousy with the plant. With a bed of the petals in his hand, Ripsnarl rubbed both sides of the elf's dagger through the plant a few times. Satisfied, he discarded the petals in a purple wave that the wind stole away, and drove the knife into the high elf's chest.

" _Sweet Mother, sweet Mother,_ " Ripsnarl recited with a singsong tone to his growling voice. He ripped the knife free and stabbed the elf again. " _Send your child unto me,_ " he continued, and stabbed again, " _for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized,_ " and again, " _in blood,_ " again, " _and,_ " again, " _fear._ "

He leaned back, observing his work. The elf's torso was full of holes, her clothes stained a solid, dark shade of red as the blood pooled underneath her. Ripsnarl, spattered in the very same blood, grinned tiredly at the effigy.

"Little Red, Little Red," he said with that same melodious tone. "Here comes the Wolf."

———Hearth Fire 12th———

"We can climb up through there."

Left grunted, which was all the agreement Sarisse needed. She started up the rock face, vertical to the point of nearly overhanging the group, yet easily the least daunting of its sisters. It was Sarisse who had led the Blacktalons once they abandoned what small roads lined the Reach's mountains, as she and Osborne had the most experience with the region's jagged terrain with the bonus of above average climbing skills. Osborne was better fit to find the fastest routes through dangerous landscape, not the safest or most suited for navigating the peaks. The other agents watched her, as they had several times through the night, recording each foothold she utilized. Once satisfied, Left nodded Syurna ahead, and the wood elf began climbing without complaint.

"We're close," Osborne mumbled, squinting through the heavy shadows cast by the peaks around them. "Do you hear that?"

An on-off whooshing sound had become audible some time ago, at first only sensed by the elves, but now even Left heard it.

"That's the dragon fire, as I said," Zelanis replied. He sniffed his nose and immediately cringed. "Eugh. Whatever Deathwing's cooking, it is _revolting_."

Left squinted at the high elf's complaint, but sniffed as well. It was just burning flesh. _Dead_ burning flesh, she admitted, but nothing that would've surprised her. She nodded at Osborne next, who hesitantly dismissed staring in the sound's direction to pursue Syurna and Sarisse.

"Nothing warrants that much fire," Zelanis mumbled, more to himself than Left.

"Maybe he dragged in a mammoth," Syurna chimed in from above.

"On a _mountain_?" the high elf scoffed back. "Unlikely. No, _listen_ —he just keeps blowing, pausing only to breathe. What is he doing? Burning a hole through the earth? But that _smell_..."

"Be patient," Left said.

He hummed disapprovingly, and without order, started climbing. Left glanced toward the sound, barred from sight by the peak that loomed over a clearing, almost like a crater in the side of the mountain. She supposed that's where the place got the name 'Dragontooth Crater', according to Osborne. She scoffed and followed Zelanis up the rock face, where the other Blacktalons waited for them. Sarisse was already studying the ridges, though Left found, once up the wall, the area was much easier to navigate.

"This way," Sarisse said, starting down an incline that led to an edge overlooking the fittingly named crater. "The fire's loud."

It was, without the mountain to block off the sound. The Blacktalons followed Sarisse's lead, passing between two large rocks that walled the way as a corridor. The edge was like a balcony, with just enough room for the five agents to settle in. Zelanis, ever impatient, crept straight to the ledge, keeping close to the rocks beneath him as he looked out into the clearing below. Immediately, he shrunk back with an Aldmeri swear under his breath.

"What is it?" Syurna said, inching closer.

"Aka," he spat in a whisper she almost mistook for a hiss, then swallowed to compose himself. "Dragons," he said again.

"I thought we knew it was the dragon," Osborne said, frowning.

" _Dragons_ ," Zelanis repeated. "There are two."

Left moved forward, peering out into the crater. Sitting in the overhang's shadows were two great dragons. One was the black, steel-plated beast they'd seen yesterday—Deathwing. The other, seated in front of Deathwing and closer to the Blacktalons, was smaller, its scales as red as the fire it breathed over the black dragon's chest, where his gash bleeding gold-white light glowed under the red's flames. The smell of rotting flesh struck Left again, thicker than before, reminding her of when she'd whiffed it before. The conversation, maintained mostly by Deathwing, as the red's mouth was consistently full of fire, was somewhat bored and resigned in tone. They hadn't sensed the agents high above them, hidden in the back wall of the crater.

"What's he saying?" Syruna asked, impatiently eyeing Zelanis.

"I'm working on it," the high elf hissed back, squinting at the dragons. After a few quiet seconds of concentration, he answered, "He's recounting what happened at Bleak Falls. Complaining, actually."

Sarisse snorted, amused. Osborne gave her a mortified look, and she covered her mouth to keep from making any more unexpected and potentially alerting noises.

"He says the nord prince did that number to him," Zelanis said, gesturing at the golden gash in the dragon's chest. "That's why he sought out the red—ohh." He leaned back, struck by realization.

"Aren't red dragons notorious for healing fire?" Syurna asked.

He nodded numbly.

Left growled from the back of her throat. "We can't let him recover—we'll never find him once he takes off."

"What do we do?" Osborne asked. "We can't just—"

Something crashed. It took the Blacktalons a moment to realize it'd been Deathwing's voice, raised and snarling in anger at the red, whose long neck reeled back, but its face contorted in an aggravation of its own. The fire had ceased. Left noticed the edges of Deathwing's wound seemed smaller than when she'd glimpsed them beneath the flames before, and involuntarily, she growled again.

"What'd he say?" Syurna asked.

Zelanis swallowed, his body held a little closer to the earth than before. "Just that he'd snap the red's neck if it spoke out of line again."

"What'd the red say?" Osborne asked.

"I don't _know_ , your whispering distracted me," he grumbled.

Deathwing snapped something else at the red, and hesitantly, the smaller dragon resumed tending to the other's wounds. They said nothing else, though Zelanis listened hard in case that changed. Left shifted her jaw, ignoring the way her teeth grinded together and only stopped when she realized it was making Osborne cringe and fidget. It'd be careless to try and strike with a healthy red dragon sitting right there, and despite his injuries, Deathwing had proven himself strong enough to fend off Wrathion and a regiment of Whiterun soldiers, if the small report brought with the Blacktalons Right sent was accurate. But she couldn't sit still and wait for something to change. The red likely wouldn't be going anywhere, until Deathwing was fit to manage on his own. Left would lose him easily without his frequent rests to keep him from traveling too far too quickly.

"We have to make a move," Syurna said.

"I wouldn't go down there if there were thirty of us," Zelanis hissed.

"You're the one that said the Dragonborn would have our heads if we lost him," Sarisse said.

Zelanis scoffed and shrugged. "I'd rather take my chances with him than them."

"Enough," Left rumbled. "We can't risk Deathwing escaping."

"That's easy for you to say," Zelanis whined. "Wrathion won't rip _your_ tongue out."

"I have an idea," Syurna said snidely, "let's use Zelanis as a distraction."

He glared at her, to which she responded by making a snatch for his leather.

"Don't touch me—"

"Then quit making me want to push you off the cliff!"

" _Enough_ ," Left repeated.

"Guys," Osborne said in a near squeak.

Left and Sarisse were prompt to look down into the crater, with Syurna and Zelanis slow to follow, and before her eyes had even registered the sight, Left realized she couldn't hear the fire anymore. The red had ceased breathing, and with its head bowed it held uncomfortably still, as if to pretend it were stone. With the way Deathwing was glaring at it, Left wondered if he'd asked it something it didn't want to answer.

Deathwing snarled, which made the red flinch as though the words were bladed. Left craned her head back toward Zelanis, who was back to concentrating on the dragons' conversation. "Zelanis."

"He said, 'Did you know?'" the high elf answered.

"Know what—" Sarisse started to ask, but shut her mouth at the sound of Deathwing's wings snapping out.

The agents watched in focused silence as Deathwing rose onto all four of his feet, angry smoke wafting from his nostrils. The red dragon beside him shied back, its eyes trained on the crater floor and claws sunk into the dirt. Deathwing scanned the walls of the mountain, but seemed uncertain of what he was looking for. Finally, in a voice less guttural than before, he said something to the red.

"'Get up'," Zelanis translated, and squinted as he worked out the next part, "'and find'—oh, _Auri-El molog_ —"

The rest of the agents didn't have to ask what; the red begrudgingly took to the air, and they realized what Deathwing's order had been. There was no time to outright retreat, so they ducked into any shadow they could find as the red rose up to the cliff they hid on. Its face appeared and it squinted into the small clearing, shrouded in shadows by the early dawn. It was one of the longest seconds of Left's life, watching the red dragon peer into the blackness, wondering if it would glimpse the edge of one of their silhouettes and light the whole crevice up in flames.

She never got to find out if it would've passed them by or not. A fan of five or so knives burst out of the darkness and bit into the dragon's face. The thing reeled with a pained snarl, and Left's head spun to each agent, until she saw Syurna, eyes locked on the dragon, lowering her arm from the ambush. Left would have yelled at her right there, if the red's mouth hadn't lit up in fire and left her no time to even warn the others. By the time she was ordering the agents to move, the fire was already drowning out her voice, and all she could do was lunge from her hiding place and hope the rest escaped.

Left dove over the side, into the crater below. She was able to snatch a part of the wall and made a bounding descent to the ground—being caught in the air would spell disaster for her. Elsewhere, Deathwing roared with fury. Left looked up and spotted two Blacktalons, unidentifiable in the chaos, attacking the black dragon. One hung on the wall, and the other balanced on Deathwing's back. The dragon snapped out his wing, unbalancing the rogue, but failed to dislodge them. He swallowed a mouthful of air, and what he breathed out were chaotic flames, deeper in color and more vile than the red's healing fire. The Blacktalon leapt away from the attack with practiced grace, and Left knew then it was Syurna.

Deathwing's fire breath was cut short as the other agent landed on the dragon's nose, crouching to hold their footing. Left saw lightning streak along Deathwing's face—the agent was Zelanis, then. The red dragon swooped near to the ground, casting hard winds past Left. She staggered and looked to find the red, just in time to see it inhale a mouthful of fire to drown Osborne in. Left wasted no time arming her crossbow and firing a bolt into the dragon's left wing, tearing through the flesh and scales bundled at the beast's shoulder. It cried out, staggering in midair, and was forced to land when it veered into the crater wall and tore streaks through the webbing in the same wing.

Deathwing roared with anger, and Left looked back just in time to see Zelanis go flying off the black dragon's face, so fast Left lost sight of him. Deathwing pursued Syurna next, taking a snap at her with his teeth. She dodged and drove another dagger into his face, earning just a snarl before the wind cast by his closest wing staggered her and one of his talons found its way through her leather. He pulled his claws back and then threw his paw, dislodging the agent and sending her crashing through the dirt. Left nearly went to help, but the grounded red dragon slammed a paw down on the ground near her, stumbling her. She turned with just enough time to pull a dagger from her belt and drive it into the dragon's foot, sending it reeling.

A snap of wings reclaimed Left's attention. She looked back and saw Deathwing rising into the air, and could only watch as he barked a draconic order at the red, then swooped out of the crater, vanishing behind the mountains. Left swore but could do nothing, and focused on the red again, just in time to avoid its teeth tearing into her. Syurna had appeared on its head, though Left didn't know when, and drove a dagger into its neck. Osborne plunged another crossbow bolt into its right elbow. The red swung its head, unbalancing Syurna and striking Osborne; the latter agent was thrown onto his back and lost his hand on the crossbow.

Left moved in, firing a bolt into the dragon's jaw and then arming herself with knives. The red threw its head again, this time hurling Syurna into a dangle on the side of its face, but she was still able to kick the open wound in its jaw where the bolt had struck it. The red snapped its teeth at Left, who evaded the dragon's bladed bite and plunged one of her two daggers into its lip. It snarled and pulled away, ripping Left's knife out of her hand, as she made no attempt to try and hang onto it and risk being swept off her feet. The overhanging wall cracked and boomed, and a glance that way told Left the dragon had smashed its tail into the rock, sending debris crashing down on them. Syurna fixed her grip on the red's head, climbing back toward her original perch between its eyes. Left took the opportunity to skirt around the beast and regroup with Osborne, who was wounded, but thankfully not killed while the rubble fell in his incapacitation.

Left grabbed a handful of his leather and yanked him down, as the dragon's tail sailed over their heads. Syurna had procured more daggers, and the two empty, bleeding holes in the red's neck and lip told Left where she'd found them. The orc focused on Osborne, who was half-knelt and hissing at the gash in his left leg.

"Get up," Left said.

"I can't," he said through clenched teeth. "My leg—"

"I know," Left said, and struggled through a grumble to rephrase the order. She threw out her hand. "Give me your arm."

Osborne bit his lip and extended his arm to her, which she took and threw over her shoulders, then stood even without his help. He fumbled to plant his right foot in the ground, even as Left was already moving away from the red. Fire exploded feet from them, followed by a crash of bone and leather and Syurna's pained cry. Left turned to see the red dragon upon them, bleeding more blood than Left thought a creature could contain; uninterested with Syurna, who laid writhing on the ground with a hand clamped to her shoulder.

Left tried to do something. Anything—but with Osborne hanging off her shoulder, with her crossbow unloaded and strung on her hip, with her last line of defense being a tiny little blade in her left, non-dominant hand, it was all she could do to half-complete shrugging the agent away and arming the crossbow.

She didn't accomplish either, before the red's talons struck her and sent her spinning through a whirl of colors that ended in black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [dragon translations](http://textuploader.com/addba)
> 
> first thing's first: public apology to kelly. she knows what for. (love u.)
> 
> i am completely unconvinced wrathion would not harbor an impression of the thalmor similar to his impression of the mogu. they just seem like the exact kinda bunch that he would get a kick out of. wrathion is kind of an asshole. (their treaty is causing him some inconvenience though. wars are so annoying.)
> 
> also, references to warcraft questlines. because.


	18. Yol Se Dov

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **content warnings:** hallucinations, death, burns, electrocution, general nastiness of wounds and such

Chapter 18: Yol Se Dov  
"Dragon Fire"

———Hearth Fire 12th———

Wrathion didn't remember this.

Not this silence, and certainly not this room. It was small and circular, with walls that arched high and met at a rounded point in the center of the ceiling. Wrathion squinted at it. There were no doors or windows, but the walls were thin; light seeped through them, illuminating every rugged flaw between the two sides. Wrathion raised his hands and touched them, only to shy away from the slime that coated the jagged surface. It stuck to his hands, dripping off and disappearing somewhere his eyes didn't care to acknowledge. They, like the rest of him, were without his armor, and so he felt every gooey inch of the substance that stuck to his skin.

A voice spoke. His eyes shot up.

It was like a rock to glass, when Wrathion felt his body and everything within it burst into a million pieces, only for time to seemingly revert and he was whole again. But the pain remained as a burning memory—or would it technically be a doomful vision?—digging deep into the seams where he'd split apart, like blades fresh out of a forge. He tried to breathe, but the voice spoke and it happened again, different seams drawn in different places. He was rended apart, and then he was stitched back together, all in the fraction of a second, yet the pain felt unending.

He shoved his hands into the gooey wall, the sludge swallowing him to his elbows, but the weak surface underneath it all cracked at his touch. He felt his whole body explode again, in the same moment, but where he came back together, the wall did not. The cracks grew with the searing pain in his seams until solid light spilled into the room. Wrathion cringed, blinded, but looked on regardless.

He saw fiery eyes.

Then consciousness freed him and he launched upright, stinging his ears with a scream he, at first, didn't know he'd made. He felt something wet all over his body and panicked, rubbing the substance away from his arms and face, but there was no weight to it like what had dripped from the walls of the inescapable room in his dream. It was only a cold sweat, warmed by the raging heat of his body—heat he almost mistook for that searing pain, but his senses were coming back and he knew better. Even so, his eyes continued to sting and show false shadows, as if he'd truly just stared into a pair of suns. He growled and pressed the heels of his palms into the sockets, rubbing the illusions out until sparks dotted the insides of his eyelids.

When his hands fell to his lap, he stared at them. This marked the fourth time he'd dreamt of that Shout. He snarled again and threw the blanket off, dismissing the phantom aches of his body as he stood on his feet. Winding lines burned along his skin, though there was no physical trace of them. But he remembered them, and sometimes, when he brushed his fingers over them, he thought he could feel them. At the time, he hadn't wanted to know what that draugr in Bleak Falls had said to cast such a horrible Shout that tore him apart and smashed him together again.

Now, however, he was dying to remember.

The morning sun burned outside, though he couldn't see it through the curtain drawn over the window. But his body was wide awake, and like the three other times he'd had the dream, he was not eager to go back to sleep and test if it'd come back. So he got dressed, instead, in the dark leather he'd bought in Whiterun and the turban he'd had since Hammerfell. Its age didn't matter to him. He put on his boots and spent far too much time attempting to smack the fatigue and irritation out of his face in the reflection of an empty plate, then gave up and tore open the bedroom door.

Right was standing guard on—where else—the right side of the door. A bandage stuck to her head, concealing the cut she'd received in the Ratway last night. When she glanced at him, any previous frustration on his face was masked in a nonchalant smile. He wondered if she'd heard him scream, and if so, if this wasn't the first time—why else would she have failed to come in? If she knew about the nightmares he'd been having lately, she certainly didn't mention it.

"Good morning," he said, failing to allow any of his musing to reach his face.

She glanced him over. The skeptical look about his greeting confirmed his suspicions, and he wasn't sure if the relief that she hadn't mentioned it was enough to flush out the frustration that she knew.

"Morning," she answered.

He fixed his smile and stepped into the hall, popping his neck idly. "Did you send those Blacktalons like I asked?"

"Yes," Right said. "Though I'd say trifling with the Thalmor is reckless, even for you."

His smile broadened into something genuine, ignoring the criticism. "Good," he said. "And this 'Wall' of Neltharion's?"

"It's being looked into," Right said. "If Fahrad's right about its status, though, it might be some time before you get any word on it."

Wrathion waved his hand at her, dismissing the concern. "I can't do anything about time— _yet_." He grinned and cupped his chin in a hand. "I do believe there are Shouts pertaining to time, however. I should look into that."

Right raised an eyebrow at him. He saw and ignored it, starting for the stairs. She followed and failed to take his hint. "And Deathwing?"

Immediately, he frowned at how forward the question was. "Left's handling him—"

"Left's _tracking_ him," Right corrected. "Your aversion to talking about him is unsettling."

"' _Aversion_ '?" he repeated, glancing at her, but the offense was somewhat false.

Right knew it instantly. "What gives?"

He scoffed, his lip curling in a vague snarl, as he looked forward again. "Ideally," he started, slowly, "I would have had more time to prepare for the dragons' return. If I had, there wouldn't have been a single one I couldn't handle."

"You're saying Deathwing's too strong?"

"Maybe," he snapped, defensive. "And—only right now. As you can see, I'm looking into how he was defeated previously. With a little more time, I'll have what I need to face even him."

"And what's that?"

His lips moved while he struggled to form the answer. "More power," he finally offered, annoyed.

Right's eyes narrowed, an openly critical look that Wrathion wasn't used to and shied from. She said nothing. Wrathion huffed again, and while he wanted to defend his recent actions further, he decided instead to let the topic die off with Right's silence. She was confused, and he knew it. He hadn't exactly managed to feign complete confidence lately, and now that she knew about his recent nightmares, it surely only served to strengthen her doubt. But he built himself on the idea that he was what would rid Skyrim of the dragons again, and that was true—it _had_ to be true—so not only was Deathwing's power absolutely infuriating, it was...

"Sir!" a voice called as he and Right stepped outside the inn.

Wrathion looked up, surprised, but it promptly turned to irritation. "Don't call me that," he hissed.

The boy that'd run up—a lanky breton dressed in typical Blacktalon garb—shied back at the reprimanding. "Sorry, um...?"

"Dragonborn," he offered with a certain obviousness to his voice, then paused. "Or your majesty," he added as a joke, waving his hand. Right snorted.

The Blacktalon filed the information away for later, and held up a small sack. "Fahrad sent me. He said you—"

"Ah!" Wrathion grinned, taking the sack and pulling it open. A bed of soul gems sat inside, glimmering faintly in what little light reached them with the sun still so low in the sky. "Excellent. Send him my thanks."

"Yes, your majesty," the Blacktalon answered, sincerely, and before Wrathion could more than open his mouth, the rogue continued. "Also, I was given this."

It took him a moment to recalibrate. "'This'?"

The agent offered a letter unearthed from his armor. Wrathion snatched it, flipping the envelope between his fingers to examine the front. There was nothing telling about the outside. Just the word 'Dragonborn' written in scare quotes.

Wrathion sneered at the subtle insult. "Who gave you this?"

"Well, that's the thing," the agent said. "When I say it was 'given' to me, I more mean I found it."

Wrathion eyed him. "You 'found it'."

"It just appeared in my chest pocket," he admitted. He made a face, trying to recall anything suspicious, then shrugged. "I imagine while I was pushing through the market crowd."

The Dragonborn's jaw shifted. Useless. "Fine. You're dismissed."

"Yes, your majesty."

"I was _jo_ —"

But the rogue practically vanished into the street. Wrathion frowned as Right let a short fit of laughter slip, then he shrugged and hid the bag of soul gems away. "Any word from Left, by the way? Or Dragonsreach?"

Right cleared her throat, but an amused smile tugged at the corners of her mouth still. "No, nothing."

He pouted, vaguely annoyed. Maybe it was unfair to expect anything from Dragonsreach yet not Left, but he had the utmost faith in the latter and he remained very frustrated that he hadn't gotten the dragonstone from the court wizard. He would have told his agents to simply steal it if Katrana wouldn't instantly know who was responsible, and he didn't much want to deal with whatever repercussions an angry court wizard could scrounge up. If they took much longer, though, he didn't think his patience could outlast the aggravation.

A pair of sentinels rushed past, brushing Wrathion and Right with a rush of wind from their sprint. Wrathion whirled to relocate them, and watched them gather to another sentinel, who seemed to be addressing a frantic elven woman. She kept pointing out toward the city gates. He couldn't make out their conversation though, but knowing the Rift, it could've been anything.

"Fine," he scoffed, regarding Right's answer, then glanced down at the letter still in his hand. He peeled it open, slipping the note inside free. Right stared, but was patient as he read.

_Wrathion,_

Immediately, Wrathion squinted. It was rare a stranger knew him by name, let alone called him as much. He kept reading.

_You're quite the talk in Whiterun, did you know? The hold practically reveres you for bringing their prince home. I haven't gone a day without hearing the word 'Dragonborn' since the turn of the month._

_I'm curious. Certainly the nords are quick to throw such a name around when dragons are involved, and I know you yourself do love to wear it. But the spectacle of your power was quite literally entombed out of sight, wasn't it? Hidden away, where the truth is unknown and the possibilities are infinite._

_So I have a challenge for you, Wrathion. There's trouble south of Ivarstead, near an abandoned lookout post. Autumntower. If I'm to understand, something 'big' and 'scaly' has turned the outpost into a sort of roost. Sounds like the kind of trouble your Thu'um would be most suited for, I think._

_If you're genuinely Dragonborn, that is. I look forward to finding out._

_Sincerely,_

_A Friend_

"What kind of ' _friend_ ' sends such an ominous letter?" Wrathion hissed.

Right stole the page—which only forced more irritated noises out of Wrathion—and skimmed it. "You?" she guessed.

He snatched it back. "Ha ha."

"You don't know who it is?"

"Of course I don't," he said. "But apparently, they know me."

She tilted her head, considering. "Autumntower," she recalled. She pulled her map out of her satchel and traced her finger along the paper. "That's not far from here. A little ways west, still within the Rift."

Wrathion's jaw shifted as he read through the letter again. He glanced up at the elven woman, her muffled shouting drawing consideration of out him. The sentinels were guiding her away, and he knew it'd take time before he could speak to her now. And, as he'd already discussed, he didn't have any time left.

His skin itched in memory of the seams from his dream.

He smirked with an amused scoff. "Well, what are we waiting for?"

Right squinted. "I didn't mean we should _go_."

"Why not?" he chimed. "I have nothing better to do until someone— _anyone_ sends me a report!"

"What about the Kirin Tor?"

"I'm not wasting my time with the Kirin Tor."

"And if it's a trap?"

"That's what _you're_ for, Right."

She squinted, thought about it, then shrugged. That was fair.

"Let's go!" he said, spinning toward the south gate. "I'll not let a dragon take refuge in—"

" **Dov Ah Kiin**!"

The cobble shuddered beneath Wrathion's feet as the Shout hit his ears. His eyes shot up to the sky, but nothing out of the ordinary showed itself as the quaking subsided. His body remained tense as whispers erupted across Riften, claiming conversations that had previously been about idle things.

He glanced at Right, who looked critically back at him. He snorted.

"I am _not_ wasting my time with the Kirin Tor," he repeated firmly.

Right scrutinized him for one painfully long moment, before she shrugged again.

"Yes," she said. A smirk crept onto her face. "Your _majesty_."

His nostrils flared and he stiffened. "Don't forget it," he snapped.

She snickered and passed him. Wrathion huffed and fidgeted with his vest as he followed her, straightening it unnecessarily. Maybe it had a nice ring to it. It certainly beat being called ' _sir_ '.

He stuck out his tongue at the thought. "Eugh."

———Hearth Fire 12th———

High Hrothgar was quiet, though Jaina felt the ringing memory of the Shout from a few moments ago echoing still.

She waited by the twin doors leading to the courtyard, where Tongues practiced their Shouts, the booming Voices swallowed by the howling wind or muffled by the stone walls. Rhonin had left some minutes ago, by request of the Laas Groniik. Like last time, she wanted him to summon the Dragonborn.

Jaina frowned at the thought. Ten days and no sign of them. She had thought herself simply eager for their arrival, but when Rhonin received instructions to summon them again, Jaina wondered if she hadn't been as impatient as she first thought. The Laas Groniik, after all, was not as demanding as Jaina's own restlessness.

It wasn't like they hadn't heard them. Their Shouts surely reached even the west-most corners of Skyrim, and the Laas Groniik had sensed the dead dragon's soul the Dragonborn had absorbed in Whiterun. Were they simply ignoring the Tongues' summons, then? The thought made Jaina's frown deepen.

A loud creak and the invasion of screaming wind distracted her. She rose from the wall just as Rhonin's snow-caked form appeared through the whitened haze. He pressed his shoulder against the door, slamming it closed with a great commotion. High Hrothgar went quiet again, save for the other Tongue's rampant breathing. Jaina went to his side and draped a heavy cloak over the one he currently wore, an action which startled him. She smiled teasingly when she caught his eye. He grinned back.

"Returning favors?" he asked.

"Well, since you complained on the walk back the last time," she joked.

"Hm," he paused, thinking. "I don't recall that."

"Sure you don't."

He laughed, but he sounded exhausted. He proved to be as he leaned heavy on the shut door. He sighed.

"What do you think?" Jaina asked.

"About?"

"The Dragonborn."

Rhonin clucked his tongue and shifted his jaw. "Beats me. Either they're coming, they're _ignoring_ us, or..."

"They don't know," Jaina offered.

At this, Rhonin frowned. "Yeah," he said shortly.

"What then?"

Rhonin groaned, annoyed but not with her, and rubbed his face in his chilled hands. "Beats me," he repeated, but it was a curt answer while he thought about it seriously. His hands fell from his face. "I don't know, actually."

Jaina gave a slight pout. "What if we looked for them?"

" _Looked_ for them?" Rhonin said. "You don't really think—"

"Why not?" she cut in, crooking an eyebrow. "If they don't realize what the Shouts mean, how else are we going to bring them to her?"

He held his breath as he pined for an answer, then sighed and relaxed against the door. "Maybe," he admitted, though the doubt stuck to his voice still.

"When was the last time you were off this mountain?" Jaina asked with a smug smile.

Rhonin blew a raspberry, considering it. "Years," he offered, almost unsurely.

Jaina's smile turned to a small grin. "Years," she repeated questioningly.

"Stop," he chided, but he was grinning as he lifted off the door and passed her.

Jaina spun around to follow him. "How long do we wait this time?"

"Until she calls me to the summit again," Rhonin said.

At this, Jaina couldn't help a frown. "Don't you feel like we're..."

He glanced over his shoulder at her. She struggled to continue.

"Wasting time?" she finally said.

It was Rhonin's turn to frown. "The only one wasting time is the Dragonborn. The dragons returning is not our responsibility."

"But—" She swallowed the protest. She'd had this conversation with herself a thousand times already. She knew the Way. She sighed, bowing her head. "Right."

Rhonin stopped, startling her as she just managed not to run into his back. He paused, thinking, then turned to face her. She furrowed her eyebrows at him.

"What?"

He opened his mouth, then thought a little more, then shut it. Jaina's eyebrows only scrunched harder.

"Rhonin?"

He smiled coyly, as though he didn't understand the look on her face. "Nothing," he promised, at least admitting to recognizing her confusion in his words. "Nothing," he said again and turned away.

Jaina snatched his arm with more than enough strength to stop him in his tracks. "Rhonin."

"It's just—" he started, stopped, and finally faced her. "Something she said."

The Laas Groniik? "About me?" Jaina said, disbelieving. "What about me?"

He grinned knowingly. "Nothing."

" _Rhonin_."

"Keep your voice down!" he teased. "Divines forbid you send me sailing into a wall, eh?"

She swatted at his arm, earning an 'ow!' and an echoing laugh. She couldn't help but grin.

"Just trust me," he said, rubbing his arm.

"I don't."

"I know you don't, but try." He paused, eyes sparkling, and she knew he was about to say something cryptic. "Trust me as far as you can throw your Voice."

She blew air, flipping a lock of hair out of her face. That made no sense. "You're a pain, Redhair."

"Ah, you love it."

She swatted him again.

———Hearth Fire 12th———

"Left."

Left grunted.

"Left, wake up."

She snarled and tilted her head away.

" _Left_."

The harsh tone snapped her to her senses. Light and sound and memory flooded into her all at once, and with the rush she tried to sit up, only for a weight to force her back down. She snarled again, snatching at the source, but it was strong and her head throbbed blindingly.

" _Stop_ ," the voice hissed. Left's vision momentarily cleared, and she recognized Syurna sitting over her. "Stop."

"The dragons," Left grumbled, her voice slurring. "Where—"

"Gone," Syurna snapped, still having to hold Left down. "Deathwing escaped, and the red followed not long after. It's weak, though."

Left groaned and, exhausted, slumped down at last. Syurna lifted her hands from Left's chest, tugging her satchel into her lap and sifting through the contents. Left's breaths were heavy and ragged as she glared off to the side, struggling to recall what had occurred. She remembered her and Syurna had managed to track Deathwing to one of the peaks he'd vanished into yesterday—Dragontooth, Osborne had said. Sarisse had found a ledge for them to observe the dragons from. Zelanis translated their conversation. Left winced. The memories fuzzed and slurred after that. Red. That was important. There'd been a fight—blood? No, scales—the dragon was red.

She frowned. A red dragon, which had surprised Left, as they seemed to be one of the rarest, second only to the elusive greens. At least, Wrathion seemed unable to find many records of reds or greens after the Dragon War had begun. Why, he didn't seem to be sure. Left certainly didn't know—they were not historically any less murderous than the other dragons.

What she _did_ know was why Deathwing would have sought a red out. They were considered guardians of life, in a time before greed blinded dragonkind, as even their flames had the potential to nurture the living. Yes—she remembered Syurna and Zelanis realizing the same. It was of no surprise to Left that Deathwing had, smartly, found a red to heal him of his strange wounds, though it was frustrating. She couldn't be sure just how much the red had managed to heal him, but he was undoubtedly in better shape, and that would make it even harder to track him.

Especially since he'd fled while the red kept her and her group from pursuing him.

A hand touched her face. Left snarled and jerked her head away, only for her jaw to be snatched by Syurna.

"Hold still," she ordered, dabbing a wet cloth on Left's head. The orc growled as a medicine burned with each touch. "You're injured."

Left reached up and took the cloth from her, holding it to her own head where she assumed a cut must've been. As she winced, she could feel the crusted blood chipping off her face. "Where are the others?" she asked, her voice somewhat clearer, though still contorted in a growl.

Syruna furrowed her eyebrows and frowned. "I've only seen Osborne," she said. "He went to look for Sarisse up in the peaks—that's the last place either of us saw her. Zelanis disappeared right before Deathwing retreated."

Left grunted, glancing over the area as if she expected to spot one of them. She pulled up her knees and started to stand, which alarmed Syurna.

"Don't—"

Left only snarled at her, and the wood elf relented. Once on her feet, which had been a painful and mildly dizzying effort, she looked over the area a second time, scowling when she again found nothing. "The red."

"It escaped," Syurna repeated, "but we managed to do a number to its wing before. It might not have gotten far."

Left grumbled, then lifted her head toward the peaks where they'd been hiding and observing the two dragons. Getting caught had been careless, and it'd cost them. She glanced at Syurna and looked her over. Left could've scolded her, but honestly, she had little hope the red wouldn't have attacked anyway. Syurna may well have managed to seize the last bit of surprise they'd had. Her left side bled, the leather split and a shallow gash glaring through the blood; her shoulder was tense and tweaked, recently dis- and relocated, it looked. Other pieces of her attire were singed as well, black and even distorted by dragon fire. But she, like Left, stood on her feet like she couldn't feel the wounds.

Syurna saw the orc assessing her and gestured at Left's chest. When she looked, she found her leather pauldron stripped off, serrated cuts marked by the grip of a claw scarring her left side. Upon seeing it, the wound stung, and she abruptly recalled when the red had snatched her and thrown her into the ground, though she only recalled the pain of it. Trying to remember anything more filled her mind with white noise and dizzying colors, so she decided not to dwell on the effort. The wound appeared to be somewhat treated; Syurna must have done it before she came to. Left harrumphed.

"Zelanis?" she rasped.

Syurna nodded toward the dirt road that winded out of the Crater. "I saw him land over there, but I couldn't find him. I couldn't look very hard, though—you were in bad shape."

Left scoffed in reply and headed that direction. Only when Syurna followed did Left see the difficulty the wound in her side caused her. It was difficult for the elf to walk and she favored her right leg. But she managed, and Left dismissed it for the moment. She knelt before a small indent of dirt, spattered with some blood. Left suspected this was where Zelanis had collapsed. The blood trail was faint, as there wasn't much of it in the first place, but it steered toward the nearby watchtower. It smeared, not dripped. He dragged himself.

Syurna was already leaning into the watchtower when Left started toward it. The door was gone, as if it'd worn to dust and abandoned the structure just as its residents once had. She moved aside to allow Left in. The roof collapsed into the second floor, which collapsed into the first, all wood planks and stone bricks strewn across the ground. The sun couldn't reach the wreckage from its place in the sky, and based on Syurna's new air of uncertainty, this was where she'd abandoned the search in favor of stabilizing Left. The orc braved the carnage, squinting to make out the blood smeared across it. On the far side of the tower, curled in a corner with the journal haphazardly dropped in his lap, was Zelanis, still as the rubble around him.

Left knelt in front of him, sparing him a check of his pulse, but Skyrim was ruthless and had already sucked the warmth out with his blood; her hand was hot against his neck. She plucked the journal out of his lap and straightened it in her hands. It was smeared with his red handwriting, the words shaken and thick with his fingertip as his pen, and it was all in Aldmeri. Left held it up to Syurna, who had since joined the orc's side. Syurna took it without question, and a small silence later, she shut the book and whispered a prayer in her own dialect of their elven tongue.

Left stood, ignoring that doing so pulled painfully at her shoulder. She glanced back to the entrance of the tower, glowing in the darkness, and started toward it, mindful of the rubble.

"Deathwing went east."

The orc stopped and fired a look at Syurna. "You saw?"

She shook her head, said, "Not me," and waved the journal. Left understood.

"We'll find Osborne and Sarisse and come up with a new plan."

Syurna nodded, and the pair of rogues ventured outside. Recalling that Osborne had gone to look for Sarisse in the peaks, Left headed back to the wall she'd jumped down from following the red's ambush. It took no order, she simply began to climb and Syurna followed. Even with their injuries, it wasn't hard; they both had enough experience climbing around precarious places. The Dragonborn's habit of delving into crumbling tombs kind of demanded that sort of job description. Once the ridges leveled out into the small clearing they'd hid in, they sharpened their eyes in search of the other two rogues.

The area wasn't large, though, and Left quickly caught the stench of charred flesh. She heard a hiccup. She scowled, knowing what had happened before even laying eyes on the sight.

She found Osborne, first, hunched over a burned husk that undoubtedly was Sarisse. If her body was here, it probably meant she'd failed to escape the red dragon's initial retaliation. Syurna frowned deeply, her head bowing some. Osborne struggled between wanting to cradle the body in his arms and not, hands hovering over Sarisse or against his own jaw, his back turned to the other agents and his body flinching with every sob that broke free. He and Sarisse had been friends long before they'd been Blacktalons.

Syurna abandoned her place next to Left to kneel next to Osborne and lay a hand on his back. He lurched, surprised to find her there, but quickly accepted the comfort. Left's scowl softened only for something sadder to creep through, and just for a moment before she buried the feeling deep down again. She glanced out at the crater and the Reach beyond, where the sun crawled ever closer to the center of the sky. Adjustments needed to be made. She was down two agents, Deathwing was missing and Wrathion was without a single report.

She spent some time, staring upon the Reach, while hiccups and cooing went on as white noise behind her. Finally, she heard Osborne pulling himself together and turned. He and Syurna were facing away from Sarisse's body now, Osborne working on composing his wet, reddened face.

"Did you find Zelanis?" he asked, scared of the answer.

Left said nothing and only offered a soft, resigned sigh.

Osborne just nodded his understanding. He almost glanced at Sarisse, but decided against it. "She needs a burial—"

"There's no time," Left said. Osborne flinched and went to speak, but she continued. "How's your leg?"

It took him a moment to change the words in his mouth. "Syurna patched it up. I can walk."

"Good. I'm sending you to Markarth to rally agents. Send four to retrieve Sarisse and Zelanis, six more as backup to me and Syurna, and as many that are left to head east and investigate new rumors about a black dragon with instructions to notify me when they find something. You'll return with the six."

Osborne had relaxed by the time she said 'Markarth'. He nodded when she was finished. Satisfied, Left looked at Syurna.

"You and I are going to hunt down the red," she said. "You said it's wounded?"

"Pretty badly, yes," Syurna said. "It'll heal itself, but if we hurry."

Left nodded. "Osborne?"

"I'm on it," Osborne said, his voice reassuring to her. She believed him.

"Then let's move."

———Hearth Fire 12th———

The knock at the door was gentle; Velen almost hadn't heard it. Before he could answer, it opened, and Katrana appeared in the threshold, a basket of things tucked in her arm.

"May I?"

Velen relaxed and nodded, but gestured across the bed. "Keep your voice low, please."

Katrana glanced where he pointed, and saw Varian Wrynn slumped in his chair in a deep sleep. She smiled and soundlessly latched the door, crossing the room and setting the basket on a table behind Velen. In it were more of the same remedies she'd handed Umbrua last night. Katrana had been told by the girl that Velen had already used up the samplings.

"I brought more medicine," she told Velen, who nodded absently. "Has it helped?"

"Some," Velen said. His voice was heavy with exhaustion, but he sounded grateful. "He seems to be in less pain."

"I didn't know you could tell," Katrana said.

Velen shook his head and glanced cautiously at Varian, who slept still. "I've refrained from saying so in front of the king, lest I only worry him further."

Katrana hummed. She smiled coyly. "Be careful he doesn't find out, Prophet."

Velen sighed. "I am."

Her smile broadened, laced with a subtle amusement she didn't allow to shine through too much. She glanced up at Anduin, tucked under a light blanket. Normally that would be too cold for even the nord-blooded prince, but the heavy sweat on his forehead suggested these were special circumstances. The whispers she'd heard hadn't been exaggerated: he very much did look half dead. She had to concentrate to see him breathe.

"Varian worried you wouldn't be in your study last night," Velen commented.

"Oh?"

He glanced at her, as if expecting her to explain instead. "You're leaving soon?"

Katrana smiled again. "Ah—yes. Recent circumstances have led me to postponing my departure for the time being." In truth, she simply hadn't finished her preparations quite yet, with the Dragonborn's rogues hovering around. But concern for her prince was a much neater explanation, and she knew that's what the prophet would assume.

He nodded, settling on observing Anduin's condition again. "This is about the dragons?"

"It is," Katrana said. "I believe I'm on to something regarding their reappearance."

Velen hummed. "I wish you luck."

She glanced at Anduin and her smile perked a hair. "You as well."

Velen gave a single, false laugh, followed by a deep sigh. Silence resumed for a time, until Velen shifted to collect the items Katrana had brought with her from the table. The court wizard spared a glance around the room, then looked at Velen again.

"Where is the highlord?"

"Keeping Dragonsreach in one piece, last I heard," Velen said. "King Varian's absence needs to be dealt with somehow."

Katrana nodded. "Fair enough. I haven't seen him."

"Word is you've been locked up in your study," Velen said, and Katrana almost wondered if she'd imagined the teasing tone.

She smiled as if she hadn't. "I suppose."

He smiled back at her. It was momentary, though, as a shuddering breath quickly distracted them both. Katrana looked to the bed, where Anduin's eyes were scrunched tighter closed than before, his teeth clenched and his body trembling. Velen didn't seem surprised so much as disheartened by the sight, sitting forward and placing a hand on the prince's damp forehead. A gentle light bloomed under his palm, giving Anduin's paled face its only bit of color. Katrana watched with sharp eyes as Velen soothed the prince until he stirred no longer. She wasn't sure if grappling with nightmares was any worse than the stone cold way he slept now. At least the former readily indicated he was alive.

"Lady Katrana," Velen said with a hesitance to his voice. Katrana's eyes drifted to him. "What does 'kulaan' mean? It is draconic, is it not?"

She was surprised to hear him ask. "'Prince'," she said, and almost involuntarily, she looked to Anduin again. "It means 'prince'. Where did you hear such a thing?"

"The word plagues his nightmares," Velen explained. "It is loud in his mind, to the point that even without trying, I hear it sometimes, spoken by what I believe to be dragons."

"Dragons? More than one?"

"I've identified at least two voices," Velen said. "One, I knew immediately—I, too, have heard Deathwing speak, and will not soon forget the brokenness of his voice. The other... I'm not sure. But surely a dragon."

Katrana observed the prince for a long moment, as if she herself expected to hear it. She glanced at Varian, who hadn't been woken through the quiet ordeal, then back to Anduin.

"Tell me," she said. "Honestly. Do you think he'll live?"

Velen bit his lip, studying the prince for a long time. Sitting at his bedside, Velen could sense Anduin's life, albeit barely. His reoccurring nightmares, and thus the reoccurring demand for Velen to chase them off, seemed to be the only significant evidence that the little bit of energy he sensed wasn't just wishful thinking. He had hoped Anduin's condition would be better by now, but he hadn't accounted for whatever terrible magic made up dragon fire. Whatever it was, it had done tremendous damage initially, but it seemed to relish the resulting infection the prince had contracted in Bleak Falls as well. Velen was struggling to keep it at bay, and even he could only do so much. Katrana's insight helped, but he'd need more time to determine how much. It seemed, more than anything else, Anduin's will was what was going to pull him through.

Velen relaxed some. The thought comforted him, because Anduin's will was not something to be underestimated. "Yes," he answered. "I believe he'll find a way."

Katrana scrutinized his long silence and following reply. She smiled again, offering only a small hum in response.

"You do not?"

The question caught her off guard. "I fear."

Velen, in turn, scrutinized her. She glanced at him, but for a moment, he didn't look away. It was only a moment or two that they stayed like that, but Katrana felt it too long before Velen sighed and returned to caring for Anduin. He'd pulled the blanket aside and was peeling the bandages off Anduin's leg—or what was left of it, she realized. She hadn't seen the prince since he left for Cyrodiil months ago. With the way he looked now, it seemed longer, and that was ignoring the fact that his current appearance was the result of only the last month. And even though she'd, of course, heard about the amputation, it was a bit different actually seeing it.

She watched, her smile gone and her eyebrows knit together with curiosity, as Velen removed the last of the bandaging. She saw little sign of the severe charring she understood the leg to have had prior to the surgery, but the edges did not look well. She couldn't contain a wince, imagining what the rest of the leg must've looked like—imagining walking on such a dead limb. It was unsettling. Velen continued with his work, dressing the wound with the salve he'd made of Katrana's ingredients. Anduin shuddered. The court wizard glanced up, watched him settle and wondered if it'd been a relieved tremble instead of a pained one. She supposed Velen had already answered that question.

The air in the room shifted. Katrana felt it, but Velen did not. She scowled. One of Wrathion's rogues was here—the pesky nord girl. Was it some sorrow for her prince that made her slip up? Katrana didn't care, actually, but her presence annoyed the court wizard more and more each time she noticed it.

"Did you feel it too?"

Katrana started, her head whirling straight toward the chair on the opposite side of the bed, where Varian sat, awake, and watching her.

"The draft," he explained, but it was a lie and they both knew it. "I'll have to get it taken care of."

Katrana forced herself to relax and smiled. "No need. I'll call someone."

Even when his eyes left her, whole seconds after she'd spoken, she felt their scalding look on her skin well afterward. "I appreciate it, Katrana."

She was impressed, actually, that he hadn't leapt to his feet the moment he sensed the agent. And Katrana knew he must have sensed her—his eyes would never harden like that for a cold breeze. He was a nord, and he lived in _Skyrim_ , for gods' sakes. Perhaps his lethargy was forcing him to think his actions through. The Blacktalon ought to count herself lucky.

Regardless, she was making herself a true nuisance now. Her time as a mere test of Katrana's patience had passed, and the court wizard would need to do something about her and the other Blacktalons quickly.

Katrana dipped her head to Varian and the prophet. "I'll leave you to it," she said.

"Thank you for the basket, Katrana," Velen said earnestly. Varian only nodded, his eyes fixed on Anduin and his hand fixed on the sword perched against the chair.

Katrana doubted he did little else here, but stare at the sickly prince. She smiled and swept out of the room, latching the door behind her as silently as she had before. She waited there, partly to consider her next course of action, and partly as a courtesy to the agent, who would...

Ah. There it was; the slight chill as the rogue shifted in the hall. Honestly, when Katrana had sensed it in the other room, she'd thought it was just her growing talent for picking up on the shrouding magic. But if Varian sensed it, then perhaps the agent really _had_ made a mistake. Why, she wasn't sure, and she still didn't care.

It didn't matter, though, because she had an idea. She adjusted herself and felt through her robes, feigning a confused scowl. She made a point of triple checking her left side, where the agents were surely used to her keeping the dragonstone by now. They knew as well as her that she at least feared of their presence, though if they knew she was aware of them too, they hadn't acted. Shortly after the third swipe over her side, the air shifted again, and feeling the slight lightness to the room, Katrana smirked.

The Blacktalons were as impulsive as their Dragonborn.

———Hearth Fire 12th———

Dragonsreach wasn't half as grand as the nords made it up to be. Jasper Fel actually found it rather uninspiring. Oh _sure_ , that old legend about the bloke and the lizard was all fine and good, and he was sure it really got the blood pumping at the tavern, and it probably had a dozen songs about its majesty too, but after lurking in its rafters for over a week, cringing sometimes at the thing's skull mounted on the wall, Jasper was sick of the whole place.

When Right mentioned an artifact Wrathion wanted as much dirt on as possible, that certainly sounded like a nice change of pace. After all, milling about Whiterun for information was probably the worst thing that ever happened to Jasper, as far as orders went, but milling about _Dragonsreach_ for very _specific_ information? At the time, it sounded enthralling.

As he'd learned, milling was milling no matter where or what for.

Jasper sighed and glanced down at the throne room. Despite his lazy position—sprawled sideways on one of the highest ceiling joists—no one noticed him. Granted, that was probably more to the credit of his shrouding spell and less the location itself, but with how rarely someone bothered to so much as glance up (except perhaps in preparation for a sneeze), he suspected he didn't need it. Even now, guards and noblemen loitered around or rushed frantically from place to place. Jasper caught word of dragon sightings, both true and false, and constant chitchat regarding the little nord prince. Andrew? Alduin? Something like that. The only name he cared to remember was Lady Katrana Prestor, for obvious reason.

The air shifted nearby. Jasper craned his neck back to look down the length of the joist, otherwise unaffected by the change. He was, after all, accustomed to the way Blacktalons moved. It was Sloan McCoy who materialized there, her eyebrows scrunched together, her lips puckered in concentration and her eyes wide and alert. Jasper lifted his head out of his hand.

"I need a distraction," Sloan said. "Keep everyone's eyes off Prestor's study."

Jasper took a moment to process the order, then grinned wide and kicked his legs off the joist to sit up. " _Finally_."

Sloan disappeared after that. Jasper glanced down at the throne room again, but he saw no sign of Prestor. Curious, but not his job. He hopped up, balancing on the joist, and made his way to a better location to begin his distraction. After all, he'd make the wrong kind of first impression if he simply announced himself from the ceiling.

Sloan, tucked in the shadows left of Prestor's study, watched Jasper move along the rafters. She, like him, could easily spot a fellow Blacktalon even through the various means of concealing themselves. She waited in her current hiding place, glancing fervently up the hall Prestor would most likely emerge from. Sloan hoped to search her study before the court wizard returned. She looked confused after leaving Prince Anduin's room, as she'd been rifling through her robes, and Sloan hoped it meant she'd left the dragonstone unattended somewhere. It'd be one of the first careless things Sloan witnessed her do, as Prestor was very delicate regarding the artifact, but she and the others had been here for more than a week and they had nothing to show for it. Wrathion was surely restless, by now, waiting for some report, but there was none on the way. If this was a chance to change that, she had to take it.

"Pardon me!"

Sloan glanced up. Jasper had reentered through the front doors, switching from the lazy appearance he usually kept to one of eager snobbery, as he waved down one of the blue-clad guards.

"Er," the guard paused. "Can I help you?"

"I have a complaint," Jasper said. "I need to speak with the king immediately."

"King Varian is busy," the guard said.

"But this city is crawling with Calia supporters," Jasper whined. "Calia 'Follows In Her Father's Footsteps' Menethil! Calia 'Yeah, Sure, Let The Legion In' Menethil!"

"Whiterun is uninvolved," the guard said, his voice turning a bit defensive. "We have no hand in the war and no affiliation with Queen Menethil or the Argent Crusade."

"I am not dense, sir, I have seen the Solitude couriers. Is Whiterun on the brink of rolling over to the Legion like Calia and half the country has? It's like you don't even remember how the moniker _Legion_ came about. 'Crusade' hasn't been applicable for thirty-something years, you know."

"As I said, Whiterun is neutral—we can't help Solitude sending couriers. Now, I think you should..."

Sloan didn't listen to any more; Jasper's fuss had the otherwise slow room well entertained, as every head was turned toward him and the guard now. She crept along the wall and slipped into Prestor's study, quick to check the usual table the court wizard left the dragonstone on when she was present. When it wasn't there, she moved on to every reasonable place she could think of. She cursed under her breath. Where was it? She only wanted to get a proper look at it—Wrathion's orders were clear about not stealing it, or even borrowing it in any way what would provoke Prestor's notice. Which was why, even if she found it, she only had a moment to look at it, assuming she didn't try to take advantage of Prestor's having lost it and examined it as the court wizard looked, placing it someplace odd but not too odd for her to find when Sloan was satisfied.

But if Prestor lost it, she _really_ lost it. Sloan didn't see it anywhere. Certainly, she had to be careful as she searched, because if Prestor noticed anything out of place it'd raise questions, but the dragonstone wasn't something that would be buried under all this wizard junk either. She was working with the artifact near constantly, though Sloan barely had any clue why. She'd drawn up a map earlier, but what for? If she could just find the—

"Looking for something?"

Sloan whipped toward the door, where Katrana Prestor stood with the dragonstone on display in her hand. The agent scowled. She'd been tricked, and fell for it. Katrana smirked, and Sloan knew there was no playing her way out of it. If Katrana knew how to trick her, she knew why Sloan was here. She glanced past the court wizard at the throne room, its populace still adequately distracted by Jasper, before she pulled her daggers and charged.

Katrana shifted her feet, bracing herself, but her smirk remained. "Stop."

And like an order from Right's own mouth, Sloan froze. A light struck her eye and she winced, her head shying back. Katrana's smile stretched wider and, with her free hand, she tugged a chain on her neck, showing off the pendant dangling from it, which had reflected the light against Sloan. Two serpents, one gold and one silver, laid crisscrossed, staring at each other, their tails coiled beneath their other half. The glow of the pendant was oddly mesmerizing.

Hands appeared at Sloan's sides, and before she could react, lightning pulsed through her body, effectively stunning her. The next thing she knew, her cheek was slammed down on the table, wrists and daggers pinned on either side of her head. Hovering over her, with her mouth close to the agent's ear, was an ethereal mirror image of Katrana. A Conjured familiar—and a powerful one, at that.

"Do you like it?" Katrana asked—the real Katrana standing in the doorway, that was, as she handled the pendant around her neck. "It's my Drakefire Amulet. Beautiful, isn't it? The Dragonborn thought so too, the last time he was here. Couldn't stop staring at it..."

Sloan lurched under the mirror's grip, but the familiar only cast more lightning into her veins, effectively incapacitating her. She struggled, hoping to slip her wrists free, but the Conjuration was strong and her wit was badly fogged by the pain of the shocks.

"Please," Katrana said. "Lie down your weapons."

Sloan scoffed, only to be electrocuted for a third time. This time, the mirror didn't cease its spell until Sloan's hands simply flinched open. The true Katrana stepped forward, collecting each dagger as Sloan released them, setting them aside where the agent wouldn't be getting to them again.

"Hush, darling," she said.

"Go to hell," Sloan hissed between clenched teeth.

Katrana raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, then tucked the dragonstone under her arm and made her approach around the table. "I see you're far more resistant than your Dragonborn was," she said. "Unsurprising. I didn't catch him by surprise, after all. Didn't even realize what was happening and, next he knew, he walked out of here on my order. But, don't worry."

Hissing magic caught Sloan's ear, and she struggled to look up. Katrana smiled with something sea-green and smoky in her hand.

" _You're_ not going anywhere."

She barely had time to look at the spell in Katrana's hand before it swarmed her vision, making her flinch and lurch back. Her mind blurred, becoming watery and muffled. She hardly registered the mirror stand her up straight, instead consumed by a numbing fog that nearly lulled her to sleep. The haze began to clear, and she saw Katrana's amulet pass over her eyes. She recognized the chain on her neck, as Katrana secured it there, and somewhere deep down Sloan's mind told her to move away, but she held still. She didn't know how much time passed before Katrana, standing beside her, spoke.

"What's your name, dear?" she asked.

"Sloan," the agent replied, surprised by her own voice.

"I don't believe we've met. Who sent you?"

She tried to swallow them back, but the words came free anyway. "The Dragonborn."

"I spoke with him just last week. What does he want?"

Sloan looked at the dragonstone in Katrana's arm. The court wizard glanced at it and smiled, as if embarrassed, then set it down right in front of Sloan, well within reach. Sloan looked down at it, but the itch to reach for it petered out and died in the back of her mind. She saw the front, carefully cleaned from the muck that had clung to it from the barrow. She saw the star-shaped marks, the careful lines. It was a map. But the marks—what did they...

 _"Here lie our fallen lords."_ That's what Right had told her. It was what was inscribed on the back. It was a map of dragon graves.

"Sloan," Katrana said, purring the name, "what would you say if I told you your Dragonborn is a very dangerous person?"

Sloan winced, but Katrana could only identify confusion in the gesture. Good. She turned to face the court wizard, then looked at the pendant dangling from her own neck when it glimmered. "Of course he's dangerous," she said as she reached to touch the amulet, transfixed by it. "But he wouldn't hurt you."

"No," Katrana agreed. "Not me. But others."

"What do you mean?"

"Do you know the word for Dragonborn in the dragon language, Sloan?"

Sloan shook her head.

"It's Dovahkiin," Katrana said. "But when you break it down, it makes the words dov, ah, and kiin. Do you know what those mean?"

Again, Sloan shook her head.

"'Born hunter of dragons'. It sounds a bit more vicious, doesn't it?"

Sloan frowned, squinting at nothing. "You're worried about... dragons?"

"Smart girl," Katrana said.

"But dragons are—"

"Shh," Katrana said, laying her hand along Sloan's jaw. "Don't let his lies confuse you any longer, my dear. You misunderstand, just as he wants you to."

"What am I misunderstanding?" Sloan asked. "Helgen was—"

"Helgen was necessary," Katrana said. "A sacrifice that couldn't have been avoided. Deathwing was the first, but there will be more, and soon his rampage will be worth the trouble."

Sloan's jaw clenched under Katrana's hand. She looked down at the floor, saddened by something. "Was Prince Anduin necessary too?"

Katrana watched her. So it _was_ the nord agent's little prince that had made her slip. The court wizard smiled.

"Help me," she said, "and you'll have the opportunity to find out."

Sloan looked at her, skeptical for a moment, before the amulet glowed, the look relented and she relaxed. "What would you have me do?"

Katrana's smile turned to a grin.

"You can start with your friends."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [dragon translations](http://textuploader.com/a0btv)
> 
> if you thought we'd make it through this entire fanfic without someone mistaking anduin's name for alduin, well, shame on you. once-in-a-lifetime opportunity here. who do you take me for? someone with some sense of self-restraint? hah!
> 
> imagine my disappointment when i found out the "letters from a friend" that tell you where to find word walls aren't ever confirmed to be written by any specific character. now imagine my utterly defiant look when i threw my fist down and said "i don't care," then wrote it into the fic.
> 
> i suppose i also could have named this chapter An Inconclusive List Of Characters Who Hate Particular Dragon Words.


	19. Bex Hin Minne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **warnings:** burns (of sorts), blood, death, drowning, hallucinations(??)

Chapter 19: Bex Hin Minne  
"Open Your Eyes"

———Hearth Fire 12th———

"Umbrua."

Umbrua started, if just, as her eyes sharpened on Varian. She winced, the sunset pouring in through the window bounding off the wall right into her eyes, but she saw the king wasn't looking at her, instead down at Anduin, a hand resting in his son's hair. Umbrua blinked the dizziness off and followed his gaze to the prince. Her heart warmed, and Varian must have sensed it, as he looked up at her.

Anduin's chest rose and fell with noticeable ease.

"Those remedies Katrana brought," Varian said, a tightly wound tension in his voice. It was firmly restrained hope, leashed to the pit of his chest, yet even so, Umbrua heard it.

She rested a hand on Anduin's forehead, and Varian sat back to keep out of her way. She could not touch upon Anduin's mind with the same strength Velen could, but even without doing so, the prince's nightmares had been anything but unheard. The severity of them had Velen himself putting off sleep for more reasons than one, and Umbrua, sensing them once or twice in his absence, didn't blame him, even as she ushered him out of the room for rest every once in a while. But Anduin's dreams were quiet to her now, unless she dug very close to the edge of intrusion.

Umbrua couldn't quite name the sounds his mind designed, but it was a gentle collection of many things. She thought of the streets of a city, and Anduin's sense of peace, of familiarity with his dreams, enforced the healer's confidence in that theory. Did he dream of Whiterun? The Imperial City? She couldn't be sure, but it eased Anduin to be there, a place he considered home after a long time away from it.

"The dragon fire is receding," she said, smilingly so brightly it lit her face for the first time in days. "Slowly, be warned," she said when she caught Varian nearly bursting with relief, "but surely."

Varian nodded, reining himself in, and ran his fingers through Anduin's hair again. His bangs didn't cling to his forehead, without the sweat to weigh them down, and if he had not sat there watching him teeter on the brink of death all that time, Varian might've mistaken the way his son laid now for sleep and nothing more.

He glanced at Umbrua, as she, with hands gently and dimly lit, assessed the state of Anduin's leg. She was careful, as methodical as Velen—she lacked only the magical prowess, but her precision and bedside manner were surely there. Her smile crept back in, the longer she pored over Anduin's leg, and Varian felt his grin growing with hers.

"Lady Katrana is brilliant," Umbrua said, her hands moving to examine the rest of Anduin—the burns were isolated to his leg, but the magic flooded his veins, and Velen described it as elusive; unwilling to be snuffed. "It's not been a full day, and..." She laughed to herself, and when she spoke again, it was excitedly with words Varian didn't understand.

"He'll be all right?" he asked, the smallest bit shocked as the question slipped free.

Umbrua grinned at him. "Your son is strong."

He laughed once, breathless, and turned to look back at Anduin. Evidence of his sickness remained, in the labor of his breathing and the color of his face, but it was so much more reminiscent of the boy Varian had seen off to Cyrodiil that for the moment, he hardly cared. Anduin lived, and even Varian, not so educated in life and magic, could see it. He brushed some hair off his cheek and ran his fingers along the amulet around his neck. Varian had insisted Velen leave it, not that the prophet had put up any fight over it. Kynareth's blessings were those of endurance and perseverance. Besides, it was dear to Anduin, just as it'd been dear to its previous owner. Varian's finger slipped into the broken wedge on the right-hand wing.

Umbrua was muttering something in draenei, and she sounded concerned. Varian looked up at her, as she stared down at her glowing hands, pressed with a gentle firmness against Anduin's sternum. She glanced at Varian when she felt him staring, then returned to her work.

"As I said, the dragon fire is receding," she explained, making a face at whatever she sensed, "but it remains. It is manifesting here." She squinted, and Varian felt his stomach churning. "Why—"

Anduin lurched, with a cry muted only by a knot of pain in his throat, and Umbrua reeled back with a hurt yelp of her own.

"Anduin!" Varian said, moving to hold the cringing boy's face in his hands, but something sharp and fiery snapped back and he lurched away with a snarl. It was like a burn, and he felt its bite linger, but saw no visible sign of it. "What's wrong—Umbrua, what's happening?"

Umbrua snapped something in draenei that Varian was certain must've been a swear. She yanked her chair closer and flinched her fingers, igniting them with white-gold magic. As her hands neared, Anduin whined and seemed to writhe away from her touch.

"Umbrua!" Varian yelled.

"It is resisting!" she said, forcing her hands down on Anduin's chest. Even protected by her spell, she snarled out in pain. "Dragon fire is a destructive force—it's volatile, and not like that which mages use."

Anduin's head craned back, and he cried out through clenched teeth, and Umbrua nearly flinched away again. Varian held onto him, hoping to steady him, and prevent him from hurting himself—and Umbrua. The magic seared his hands, and ready for it this time, Varian likened it more to hot air than fire itself. He did not shy from it.

"Why now?" he said, glancing at Umbrua, his voice strained by anger and more so panic.

"It's dying," she said, almost obviously, then winced and looked up at Varian. "You do not know?"

"Know _what_?"

"I—" she started to say, but Anduin flinched and she had to focus on her spellcasting until Varian, pained by the surge of magic, could get his hand on the boy again. "I've been reading about dragon fire since Prince Anduin returned—the magic can erupt and explode when reduced to traces. It's like—when someone is dying, and their brain attempts to jolt them awake."

"It's _magic_ ," Varian hissed. "It has no brain!"

"I told you, dragon fire is not like the magic we know!" Umbrua said. "I thought Lady Katrana would have told you already—"

" _Katrana_ knew?"

"I thought—"

Anduin shouted, this sound equal in pain and fear, and again, Umbrua lurched back with a yell. A sweat had broken out across her forehead, and her hands trembled as she struggled to maintain her magic there. Anduin seemed to unravel some when she did not immediately try to near, but his breaths were small and frantic. Varian brushed his son's hair back, and felt the heat seeping through his skin, chewing into the king's, as the infection of dragon fire waged within the channels of Anduin's own magic. Umbrua swore again.

"I am not strong enough to quell it," she said. "The fire is harder to cleanse the deeper you go—all that remains is what is out of reach of outside magic, what we've been trying to let smolder and die."

"What can you do?" Varian asked, anger in his voice, but not at her—though with the way he wielded it, it might as well have been. "If it can't be reached from the outside..."

"We can wake him," she started, hesitantly. "He might be able to cleanse it from the inside out—where the fire is."

Varian looked at her, and his stare, wide and worried, lingered on her longer than usual. "You can force him awake?"

"Master Velen can," she said. "It's not safe though. He could..."

She trailed off. Varian got the idea. "But if we don't?"

Umbrua chewed her lip, and Varian nodded.

"Get Velen."

"Your majesty—"

"Hurry!"

Umbrua's mouth closed again, but she nodded and leapt to her feet, sprinting from the room. Anduin whined and shook, but without Umbrua's magic agitating the dragon fire, he didn't struggle as much. The heat under his skin only seemed to spread and grow, as the infection erupted just as Umbrua had said. Varian growled at nothing, then took Anduin's hand—cooler with distance from the fire's last stand, if only just—and held it in both of his.

"You are strong," he said, his voice on the brink of trembling. "Come on, Anduin."

But Anduin only shuddered. Varian bowed and rested his forehead on the boy's burning fingers.

"Open your eyes."

———Hearth Fire 12th———

Scouring the mountain for the red dragon proved more difficult than Left would've liked. Not only was it a matter of navigating a terrain that was sharp and at times nearly impossible to maneuver, but like Deathwing, the red could fly. At the start of their search it'd been especially complicated, with the dragon's adrenaline rush surely strengthening its flight. Spatters of blood had been the only trace of the red at first, and they were somewhat unreliable thanks to their scarcity and the way both flight and fall seemed to hurl them in unpredictable directions.

But things got easier the farther along the difficult trail the Blacktalons got. They'd caught a break when they discovered a small crater that looked to have been the result of the dragon simply dropping out of the sky, and the rocks and brush beyond that point were bled on and trudged through. Now, the trail was as obvious as Deathwing's charred wake Left had followed from Bleak Falls over a week ago. The lingering sunset did little to obscure it.

What could be done with a red dragon, though? In all honesty, Left wasn't completely sure. She hoped maybe Deathwing would seek the red out again, if his injuries were still significant. But Left still didn't understand the nature of those injuries. She recalled the Whiterun soldier Right had captured weeks ago saying a Restoration wizard had wounded Deathwing, and Left was fairly certain the golden gash worsened by the nord prince was the same injury. So it was Restoration magic, theoretically.

But that was a branch of magic built on _healing_ , so how one would cause damage with it, Left had no idea. She knew very little about magic. Did it not make sense that the red's breath should have damaged Deathwing as the Restoration spells had, if such magic was destructive to him? If Left had ever needed a reason not to study magic, she had one now. At least steel was consistent.

The sky was a deep red in the west now, the sun tucked beyond the horizon and the warm color rapidly turning black the farther east one looked. What little light the fleeting red offered was shunned by the high mountains, and heavy shadows were cast instead. The peaks were so dark that only their bright outline made by the light could differentiate them from the intruding night sky. It was for this reason Left noticed, immediately, the red-yellow glow hidden beyond the ridges in front of her.

"Look."

Syurna looked forward and just as quickly saw the glow. The way it flickered against the mountains was unmistakable. "Fire."

Left didn't respond, resuming her paused walk, this time with a destination in mind. Syurna was right behind her. The trip, like the rest of the search, took far longer than it seemed to have any right to, but the sloping mountains, sometimes blatantly vertical, made themselves a consistent issue. Eventually though, warmth and an on-off _whooshing_ accompanied the rippling firelight, and Left knew it was just beyond the next jutting row of rocks.

So she scaled it, and on the other side, she found what she'd spent the better part of the day hunting. Nestled in a crevice of the ground, between two jagged crags, was the red dragon, blowing waves of fire over its left wing, stretched long down its side and the ground beyond that. Between breaths, Left could see the gash in the wing, toward the base where it met the dragon's shoulder. It was an ugly wound, even with the red's healing. Left could see how the beast had failed to get far with such an injury. Dirt and grass stains offered additional insight. The dragon had struggled just to make it this far, and this place was no more than an hour's flight from Dragontooth Crater. It certainly looked exhausted.

"Now what?" Syurna whispered, her eyes fixed on the red.

Left wrinkled her nose. Seeing it got her no closer to a better plan. She wished she could've followed some lead to catch up to Deathwing, but 'east' was a very vague notion to act on. Wrathion would be furious to find out she'd lost him.

But the red was weak. Would it be possible to capture it, and perhaps interrogate it? It sounded absurd. Certainly, dragons spoke, but that was the least of the idea's problems. If they failed to apprehend it, the dragon could easily finish them off.

If they succeeded, though...

Left's eyes narrowed. She had time to consider it—even if she decided to try, she wouldn't risk it until Osborne and backup arrived. She and Syurna were unlikely to succeed on their own. The red was only going to get healthier the longer they took, but striking now was too risky. She'd just have to see what the red's condition was like when backup arrived.

"We wait," she answered.

———Hearth Fire 12th———

"Holy—"

"Is that a man?!"

"Somebody get the highlord!"

It was Duthorian Rall who had made the order, as he stripped off his plate armor before he dove into the moat below Dragonsreach. It was a miracle anyone had even seen the body, with the sun all but gone and the torches doing little to illuminate the water beneath it. No one really expected to need to see down underneath the bridge crossing to the palace very often, after all.

The water was cold, but Duthorian's adrenaline kept him warm enough. He swam to the floating shape, certainly a man, and flipped him over to get a proper look. An imperial—and an unresponsive one.

Duthorian got a good grip on the man and waded backwards to the stairs that descended into the moat for occasional events like tonight's. He hauled the imperial out and laid him flat on his back, Duthorian gasping at the effort and the chill that bit into his clothes and skin. Two others, including Ilsa Corbin, who had been the one to spot the body, hurried down the stairs to meet Duthorian there.

"That's the jerk from earlier," the other guard, Wulf Hansreim, said with a face of concern and, more prominently, irritation. "The one whining about Queen Menethil supporters."

Duthorian tore through the imperial's armor and nearly went to try and resuscitate him, but froze. Ilsa tugged off her blue-and-gold tabard, offering it to Duthorian. He only sighed.

"No need," he said.

Ilsa glanced down, saw the deep gash in the imperial's neck, and withdrew her arm. "An assassination? This cut looks professional."

"What in Oblivion is an assassin doing in Whiterun, picking off assholes?" Wulf complained.

"Watch it," Duthorian said. "He's dead, for gods' sakes."

Wulf snapped his mouth closed and frowned. Well, that wasn't _his_ fault.

"Highlord!" Ilsa called up toward the bridge.

Duthorian and Wulf glanced up. Bolvar had arrived, with the guard that had gone to get him, Ander Germaine, and Angela Leifeld, a noteworthy medic.

"Is he—" she started.

"He's dead," Duthorian reported. Angela's face sorrowed, but she resigned from her ready posture.

"Who is he?" Bolvar asked.

"He was here earlier," Wulf said. "Left in a huff over Legionnaires in town."

Everything seemed to be about politics lately. Bolvar came down the stairs, kneeling beside the dead imperial. The highlord didn't recognize him, but then he hadn't seen him in Dragonsreach earlier. He'd bled significantly, but hadn't been dead long. Bolvar frowned. Duthorian saw the look and offered an answer to the oncoming question.

"Dunno who'd want to kill him, though," he said. "Apparently he was a little jarring, but..."

"How'd his body get here without anyone noticing?" Angela asked.

"You don't have to sound so accusatory," Wulf whined.

"She has a point," Bolvar said, eyeing him. "No one saw anything?"

"I just spotted him in the moat," Ilsa said. She, to Wulf's gratitude, refrained from mentioning that it was because they'd been roughhousing and he pushed her toward the banister, in response to a joke, that she'd seen the corpse in the first place.

Bolvar closed a fist over his mouth, scowling at the imperial's wound. He squinted, catching Duthorian's attention.

"What is it, Highlord?"

Bolvar glanced at him, hesitating, then dismissed the look from his face, though an aggravated crease remained in his brow. "Nothing," he said, and stood up. "Fan out; I want every inch of the Cloud District searched. Angela, Duthorian, wait here."

His order was met with a mix of salutes and 'yes sirs' as they hurried off to send word across the guard. Once they were gone, the dark look on Bolvar's face returned.

"Highlord—" Duthorian started, persistent.

"Look at his armor," Bolvar said. Duthorian did. "Look familiar?"

"No?" Duthorian said. Then he squinted too. "Wait."

"That's what that woman was wearing," Angela said. "The Dragonborn's agent."

"What're Blacktalons doing _here_?"

"And why are they being killed," Bolvar added. He scowled out into the city.

It didn't make any sense. Blacktalons in Whiterun? What for? Bolvar had to think. The Blacktalons were as mysterious as Wrathion himself. People didn't know a lot about them, and little word of them traveled as a result. But Bolvar did know Wrathion used them to keep tabs in many corners of Skyrim, and the agents weren't without their sightings. Bolvar had dealt with the occasional report of an unfamiliar face in the streets, or a reclusive stranger asking odd questions. But what information did Wrathion hope to find?

No. Bolvar knew. The Dragonborn practically told him.

"Take him to Umbrua," the highlord said, turning from the pair.

"What about you?" Angela asked. "Where're you—"

She stopped herself as commotion carried over from where some of the guards had gone. The three listened as a loud conversation went on—another Blacktalon had been found dead. Bolvar's scowl only worsened.

"Umbrua," he repeated, and disappeared back into Dragonsreach before the pair could question him again.

He didn't have far to go. Katrana's study was just inside the throne room, to the right, and he arrived with the nighttime cold still melting off of his armor. He didn't have time to register what she was doing, and he didn't care to wonder.

"Katrana," he blurted out.

She spun from the table she stood at, alarmed at his abrupt intrusion. She offered a startled smile. "Highlord. What brings you t—"

"The dragonstone," he said. "Where is it?"

Katrana furrowed her eyebrows. "Why?"

" _Do you have it_ , Katrana?"

"Yes, yes— _Divines_." She waved her hand at him, moving to another table. She plucked the tablet off a pile of other miscellaneous reagents, displaying it for the highlord to see. "Now, _what_ is the matter with you?"

Bolvar relaxed, finally. "Forgive me," he said. "I thought..."

Katrana squinted at him. " _Yes_?"

He shook his head. "Blacktalons," he said. "The Dragonborn's agents—do you recall the woman that came here with him last?"

"I do," she said, remaining confused.

"There were others," Bolvar said. "We've found two dead around the keep."

Katrana blinked, stunned. " _Dead_? What are his agents' _corpses_ doing here?"

"I..." He paused, hesitating, but he pushed it aside. "I speculate he had intended his agents to study the dragonstone. Perhaps even steal it for him."

Katrana scoffed, offering a false smile. "Is that so?"

"In any case, someone else wanted them dead." Bolvar frowned at that, glancing back into the throne room. "Not that I have any clue who, or why."

"That's reassuring," Katrana teased, though her voice held worry. "Is it safe here? What of the king—and the _prince_?"

"I'm working on it, but..." Bolvar said, and paused. Troops remained in Falkreath to help with Helgen—perhaps he'd send an order for a small group to seek out the Dragonborn at High Hrothgar and get some answers. Regardless of if Whiterun was grateful for his part played in Bleak Falls, that didn't mean he could send his rogues to snoop around Dragonsreach. Bolvar sighed hard and looked at the court wizard again. "I doubt they're here with the intention of doing harm. In the meantime, keep that stone close. I'm not sure how many Blacktalons he left, and I'm not sure they're all dead."

Katrana nodded, tucking the dragonstone into her side. "Divines aid you, Bolvar. You've too much work lately."

He smiled and laughed once. "That's kind of you. Be safe, Lady Katrana."

He left after that, to make quick work of whatever bad omen had befallen Dragonsreach. Katrana watched him leave, holding her worried mask until he was out of sight. Then she smirked.

"Good girl."

———Last Seed 17th———

Helgen was a pretty town.

It was small, and quiet too. Or, as quiet as nord villages could be, but Anduin didn't mind. The bustle of the place was welcome, even, as he hadn't felt so at home in months. The Imperial City had been _beautiful_ , and he loved every second he'd spent there, but he missed Whiterun. He missed Skyrim. Helgen's commotion—the clanging of the busy smith, the whistle of the frigid wind, the roaring laughter only those of nordic blood could thunder out—it was familiar. It was home.

Anduin watched, sitting on the edge of a crate, as the townsfolk went about their day, though his presence greatly disrupted it. He wasn't sure how many, if anyone, knew just who he was—though he supposed the blue-and-gold banners and horse armor were pretty big hints. But he didn't suspect many of them knew the Prince of Whiterun's face by name, especially since he was still in Falkreath Hold. Perhaps if his father were here.

He breathed an inward sigh at the thought. Anduin hadn't seen his father in months, and though the freedom had been refreshing, he did miss Varian. He smiled. He wondered if Varian missed him more.

The eastward gates rolled open with quite the objection. Anduin looked toward the sound, curious, as the gates hadn't been opened since the regiment's arrival in town something like an hour ago. He knew after a lifetime of politics to look for the banners, and the ones he found were white, the sigil a black star encasing a golden sun. The Argent Crusade—though, most described them as a _Legion_ these days. Many considered 'Crusade' too righteous a word for what the armies had become. Following the flags were wagons, and based on the soldiers flanking them, Anduin suspected they were prisoners. It wasn't a farfetched thought—it was no secret that Helgen was a base, of sorts, to the Legion. There was a keep, on the northwestern side of the city, that Anduin was sure contained at least a few prison cells. He squinted at the wagons, but couldn't make out much about the occupants from his distance.

"Your highness."

Anduin straightened, glancing toward the carriage. Captain Taylor had approached him, something folded up in his hands, but Anduin knew what it was and leapt to his feet even as the captain continued.

"I think it's safe to return this to you," Taylor said, extending his arms.

"My tabard!" Anduin said, grinning, as he received the garment.

He hadn't been allowed to wear it since they'd left months ago. Anduin didn't quite understand what him wearing Whiterun's sigil would tell potential threats that the banners on the carriage wouldn't, but Captain Taylor had insisted and the trip was already long and stressful enough without Anduin making a fuss. He let the tabard fall out of its fold, hanging before him, as bright and pristine as he remembered it. Then he slung it over his arm and went to remove the shawl draped around his shoulders to wear it underneath.

Taylor smirked, admiring the prince's enthusiasm. "Need a hand?"

"I can dress myself, thank you," Anduin said, tossing the tabard over his head. "How long until we reach Whiterun?"

"Tomorrow."

His eyes lit up. "Really?"

"I've already sent word," Taylor said. "They'll be expecting us."

Anduin's grin only broadened. It almost seemed like a dream—which felt silly, actually. It wasn't like this was the first time he'd been away from Whiterun, but it'd certainly been the longest. He glanced out at Helgen again, taking another moment to relish the familiarity of Skyrim's people. He supposed it wasn't a dream at all.

"Captain."

Anduin turned as Taylor did, and saw one of the guardsmen standing attention. Deputy Willem, Anduin recalled. Eight months had been plenty of time to memorize every name in the regiment tasked with protecting him.

"Yes, go on," Captain Taylor said.

"We're all set for tomorrow morning," Willem said. "What about the Legion?"

"Just stay out of their way. We don't need to make any trouble this close to home."

"Yes, Captain," the deputy said, and went on to report some things Anduin found himself not hearing.

He went back to the town, walking through and idly adjusting the shawl he'd since returned to his shoulders. More guards from his security detail dotted the area, keeping their eyes on the streets. Anduin had been instructed, maybe a hundred times, not to wander too far from the regiment, and he'd complied with that. Most of the time. He _may_ have snuck away once only to get slightly lost in the Imperial City, and he _may_ have had to be found by Master Velen. Maybe. In any case, he didn't intend to misplace himself again.

A pair of children rushed by, appearing as if from nowhere and forcing Anduin to stagger in order not to trip over them.

"Sorry!" one of them said, hopping backwards as he brought himself to a halt.

Anduin opened his mouth to reply, but the boy's friend spoke first.

"That's another charge of assault!" she said, snatching at him.

The boy dodged, laughing, but feigning an offended look. "I didn't touch him! You can't arrest me, Alliance scum!"

"I'll show you, you Horde—"

Their play-fight was drowned out by a thundering noise, carried high over the sky, like the roar of a great animal. The children hushed, their eyes firing up to name the sound. Anduin looked up too, but the sky was clear. There was no sign of anything that could've made the noise—not thunder, not cannonfire, not... Well, so on and so on. He almost wondered if he'd imagined it, but whispers erupted through the town. Everyone had heard it.

"Oh," the girl teased, "summoning _daedra_ to protect you, Horde?"

"The Horde don't even use daedra," her friend complained.

"I made them up, so now they do!"

"Oh yeah? Well, then the Alliance have, um..."

"Hmmm?"

"Thalmor!"

"What!" the girl whined. "You can't use the Thalmor—"

"Why not?"

"The _real_ Thalmor will get mad at you, dummy!"

"Yeah, but, I'm a rebel! So I don't care."

"This is why the Alliance are gonna win!"

"Nuh-uh! The Horde have daedra."

"The Thalmor are scarier."

"No they're—" The boy stopped and pouted. "Okay, maybe."

"So submit!" his friend said, reaching to grab him again.

"No!" he shrieked, darting away. "Never!"

Anduin watched them disappear into the city again. He smiled, still able to hear their game even though he could no longer see them. He spared another glance at the sky, idly, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. He frowned. Something about the noise made him tense, as if there were a knife in his side, and no amount of shaking it off seemed to help.

He tried to ignore it and meant to return to his stroll, but instead spotted the Legion wagons from before. They were stationed near the keep, as Anduin had suspected, and the prisoners were being unloaded. It looked to be a group of miscellaneous people—one man, in ravaged trousers, had a layer of dry blood running down his chest, which had shocked Anduin upon first seeing it. He seemed to be talking to the younger woman beside him, though Anduin couldn't tell if she contributed to the conversation, as a red scarf obscured her face. She didn't look much older than Anduin himself—or _any_ older, for that matter—yet her bindings were as tight as the blood-drenched man beside her, indicating the severity of her crimes, whatever they might've been.

When she caught Anduin staring, the prince felt a chill run down his spine.

"You shouldn't wander too far."

Anduin startled even worse, and glanced back to find Master Velen. He looked forward a moment later, but the woman now looked ahead to the Legionnaires crowding the keep's yard.

Anduin gently shook out his nerves, and smiled at Velen. "Don't worry, I'm exhausted."

Velen stopped short of the prince, a slight smile of his own tucked in the corners of his mouth. "Mm," he hummed, unconvinced but teasing.

"Did you hear that?" Anduin asked, nodding up at the sky again.

Velen spared it a momentary glance. "I did. Does it trouble you?"

He considered it and shrugged. "I suppose not. Just curious."

The prophet was quiet for a moment, then nodded. Anduin squinted.

"Does it bother _you_?"

He smiled, but Anduin had spent enough time with him to tell the false from the genuine. "I'm more bothered by the risk of you disappearing when I'm not looking."

Anduin laughed through a grin, but his face flushed. "I'm not going to run off. And even if I did—if!" he said when Velen raised an eyebrow, "I could find my way to Whiterun from here."

Again, Velen hummed. It was as unconvinced as the last. Anduin opened his mouth to protest, despite the doubt being relatively well-founded, when the prophet started to walk, nodding ahead as he passed the prince. "Come with me."

Anduin blinked, but turned and followed as instructed, sparing one last glance at the yard. The woman never looked at him again. Together, he and Velen traveled through Helgen for a time, allowing Anduin to truly take in the village in far more detail. He scarcely got to explore the streets of a city so intimately. His confidence in being able to find Whiterun had been genuine—the city sat atop a great hill in an otherwise flat plain, after all—but he wasn't so sure he could navigate most of Whiterun's streets themselves. Not with the way his father worried over him when he was home. Anduin wondered if that'd change, at all, once he returned from Cyrodiil, amazingly unscathed despite months without his father to protect him.

He smiled falsely. He doubted it.

"Where are we going?" he asked Velen.

The prophet only gave a singsong ' _hmm_ ', otherwise silent as he continued through Helgen. Anduin furrowed his eyebrows together, but didn't question it further and followed still. He saw the two children from earlier rush by, well ahead of them, yelling about—what was it? Alliance and Horde? They vanished as quickly as they had the last time, disappearing into their game of pretend. Anduin smiled.

"How do you feel your studies are going, Prince Anduin?"

Anduin glanced at the prophet, processing the question. He considered it. "I've learned so much in Cyrodiil," he said. "They're going well, I think."

Velen nodded. "Would you like to try something?"

At this, Anduin straightened. "Something new?"

The prophet stopped, surveying the new area. It was farther away from the bustle of the tavern and those that had flocked to the keep yard, and quieter too. Most importantly, it was away from the Legion. Satisfied, he faced Anduin and held out his hands. The prince watched, attentive, as Velen closed his eyes and focused. Gold dust began to circle in the air around his hands, dim at first, but as it gained speed it brightened too, and soon a great, spheric light bobbed weightlessly in the prophet's hands. Anduin, though he knew a fair bit about sun magic, remained fascinated by the sight. This was something he hadn't seen before.

The prince spared a cautious glance of his own around the streets.

"They won't see," Velen assured.

"I don't want you to get in trouble for my sake," Anduin said seriously, frowning at the prophet.

"Anduin." Velen smiled brightly at the prince. "If I feared the Legion's prosecution, I would never have taken you in as my student, let alone invited you to study _all_ that Restoration has to offer."

He remained worried, but his shoulders began to drop as he relaxed. He nodded. "I understand," he said, and his eyes fixed curiously to the light in Velen's hands.

"This is a very difficult spell," the prophet said. "Vampire's Bane—an explosion of magic, one capable of causing a lot of damage to a large area. It is likened to dawn, to the sun bursting into the world, casting out evils—hence its name." Velen looked up at Anduin. "It is much more advanced than what you've done so far, but you're very good with what you do know. I'm curious."

"'Curious'," Anduin repeated. He eyed Velen, grinning. "You think I could do this?"

Velen smiled. "As I said. I am curious." The light vanished with a gentle _fwoosh_ that reminded Anduin of a torch blown out by the wind, then Velen folded his arms neatly in his robes. "Hold out your hands."

Anduin did, flexing his fingers some to ready them. Already, he felt magic stirring in his chest, crawling under his skin in wait of their destinations in the palms of his hands. But Anduin was patient for Velen's instruction, and the magic didn't disobey him.

"Now, close your eyes," the prophet said.

Anduin knew why. It was a trick Velen still used too—he'd done so just now, even. So Anduin did, and he couldn't resist picturing the golden sphere Velen had shown him before. The magic in him was restless, eager to try and replicate it. Anduin took a breath to quiet his mind. The sense of swirling mists of light around him lessened, and he relaxed.

"When I was learning Vampire's Bane, I found it easiest to recreate the name of the spell in my mind," Velen explained. "So make it dark, Prince Anduin—as dark as you're able, and picture something small. I started with a mouse."

Anduin's face hardened some as he put the images in his mind. He remembered the shorter, darker winter days in Skyrim and used their example, and soon it wasn't the insides of his eyelids he stared at, but the hills on the brink of Dragonsreach. Anduin had to focus harder to blot out the bright lights of the city, but eventually he could hide them and the blinking blanket of stars in the sky with an imagined midnight fog. The plains became washed in darkness, and it made Anduin's toes curl in an effort to root themselves to the ground, afraid to move in case he'd trip over unseen undergrowth. The only light he saw were tiny reflections in the eyes of a mouse in the grass.

He was used to preventing Velen's voice from dispersing these images, so when the prophet spoke, the vision held as firm as a painting. "Now," he began, "what is the spell called?"

"Vampire's Bane," Anduin said. Velen had never been surprised at the certain absence the prince's voice could take on when he was so deep in concentration.

"Your mouse is your vampire," Velen said. "Now, with sun magic, I want you to banish it."

Anduin squinted, momentarily, but understood the concept. Careful not to lose the darkness in the process, he picked out the eastern horizon, past the blotted out silhouette of Dragonsreach, and took a deep breath. His fingers flexed again, and slowly, the fog dispersed and the sky behind the city began to lighten in his mind's eye. He felt his magic curling down his arms, spiraling between his hands just as the faint light had in Velen's. The horizon continued to lighten, and as it did, shape began to take in the prince's hands. Until finally, dawn broke, and the bright gold of the sun exploded across the dark plains, pushing the blackness back just as it had the fog.

The mouse fled for the darkness, disappearing as the light lit up the hills. Anduin's body warmed at the swirling magic balled between his hands, magic he hoped was as bright and powerful as the sun in his mind.

Velen, pleased, spoke. "Here lie our fallen lords," he said, "until the power of Neltharion revives them."

Anduin's eyes shot open. He stared, momentarily, at the prophet in front of him, whose face was just as satisfied with the prince's work as his voice, but suddenly Anduin found it jarring and wrong. He hardly had time to think about it, though, because what hovered in his hands was not a light and he knew it instantly. He looked down at not Vampire's Bane, but an aged stone tablet.

"The dragonstone?" he said, then sucked in a breath. How did he have this? Bolvar had taken it—no, Bolvar wasn't _here_. He shouldn't have even known what the dragonstone _was_.

But he did know. He'd found it in Bleak Falls, where he'd been taken after—

A thundering roar broke out across the sky. Velen's eyes rose up, and it was all so disturbingly familiar. Anduin knew what came next, but he couldn't move. Even when Velen tensed, even as the dawning revelation that something horrible was coming, Anduin couldn't move until Velen spoke again.

"Anduin!"

Then Anduin turned, as he had that day, and there in the sky was a blur of black, a wave of fire and then, for a moment,

nothing.

Until the chaos came rushing back in, flood water to his ears, and Anduin listened as steel and voices clattered all around him. He could barely open his eyes, met with a whirlwind of light and color, but he felt his body cradled in Velen's arms, and he heard Taylor urging him to respond, and he knew the pounding in his head was a laceration bleeding heavily down his face.

And he knew, this time, that all around him, Helgen burned and crumbled. And all he could do was lament because this time, he had no way to hope or pretend it wasn't real. He knew it was, and his heart ached. All of him did. Every inch burned, as if fire filled his veins, and Anduin allowed his eyes to fall closed again, with some idea that maybe the burning sensation would lessen if he did.

Taylor's voice rose in volume and urgency. A hand touched his face, momentarily, and it was so frigid against the fire that it shocked his eyes the slightest bit open, though the hand retracted a moment later, as if hurt or maybe scolded.

"Anduin," came Velen's voice—or so Anduin had to assume, based only on that it came from the wrong direction to be Taylor's. "You must summon your magic!"

Somewhere in his mind, Anduin heard his answer—"I can't,"—but it never came close to his lips. His eyes shut again, and the way his head hung in Velen's arms made his neck ache, but flames raged in his chest and if he could just fall asleep, perhaps he wouldn't feel it anymore. Perhaps the curse of Deathwing's fire would finally leave him—

Wait. Who was Deathwing? No, he knew this—he was the dragon, the one that had attacked Helgen. He'd been in Bleak Falls—but Bleak Falls hadn't _happened_ yet— _what_ was going on?

"Anduin!" shouted Taylor—maybe—oh, Anduin's head hurt, he didn't sound like Taylor. He never had. "Anduin, if you can hear me, use your magic!"

He didn't know what they meant by that. 'Magic' was such a vague term—did they have some spell in mind? Did it matter? What was he using it for? Healing? Protection? Combat? The flames in his blood only grew hotter and Anduin cried against their bite.

"Damn it, Velen, do something!"

"Anduin, listen to me."

Anduin whined, hoping somehow, Velen would know he'd heard. He would help him, wouldn't he? Whatever this fire was, whatever became of Helgen, Velen would protect him. Just like he had—he'd cast Deathwing away. Anduin tensed, briefly remembering the prophet had died, then remembering Riverwood.

But Riverwood hadn't happened yet.

Except, he had the dragonstone right there in his hands.

The flames erupted and Anduin swore they'd tear through his skin.

"The fire, Anduin—cast out the fire!"

How? How could he? It was in his blood. It was in his _mind_. It consumed everything, like living darkness, and—

"Right here," came a voice, not Taylor's—it was never Taylor's—and Anduin felt an object he recognized to be his amulet pressed against his sternum, igniting a fiery pain deep under his skin. "Flush it out!"

Clarity rung in Anduin's ears, and the only word it sang was 'mouse'.

He squeezed his eyes shut, clenched his teeth and, with the amulet as his mark, drowned the pain in blinding gold light, as if the sun shattered the very barrier of his ribcage and vanquished the agonizing fire that lurked beneath it. The sensation was like cold water cascading over him, and it shocked Anduin so thoroughly he went stiff to the point of aching. He shivered and whined, but the water-like feeling eased back the rampant flames, and Anduin felt the ashes swept away by the tides.

The chaos of his body and that of Helgen drifted away with the golden sea, and though it was darkness that stayed with him, it was a calm, cooling one. Anduin felt it embrace him, stealing away the fire, the pain, and the voices too. It whispered to him, gently, beckoning him to a hall that promised peace and something to drink. A woman sang a lullaby he knew by heart.

A hand shot through the dark and grabbed his arm; Anduin flinched and tried to pull away. "Anduin," its voice begged, and Anduin hesitated from jerking again. "Come on, answer me. Anduin!"

It would've been Taylor's voice, if it'd ever been in the first place. Anduin tried to speak, to console that distraught voice, but all he'd managed was a wince, if not an audible breath. The lullaby paused.

"Please," the voice said. "Open your eyes."

And without the darkness's song to muffle it, Anduin recognized the voice.

When he did as it asked, Helgen was gone, and he was in his bedroom. His lungs ached and his heartbeat rattled in his chest, and somewhere out of mind, he knew he'd stopped breathing. He only realized Varian's face was above him when a tear dropped onto his cheek, making him take a sharp, startled blink.

"Father?"

The king's grin was rampant, his laughter broken and breathless, as he bent down and kissed Anduin's forehead with as much firmness and wariness as Anduin had ever seen fused together. His eyes shut by impulse alone, but he felt Varian's hand on his jaw, the other still clutching his arm, and Anduin lifted a hand of his own to rest it on his father's wrist. The gentle warmth and residue of Restoration magic lingered like sunlight on his skin, as though he had cast a spell, but he was too dizzy to recall much at all. He barely even remembered what he'd been dreaming about—or at least, didn't want to think about it now.

His father was mumbling—Anduin caught thank yous and mentions of Divines, but all he could think about was the loss of a stone tablet no longer tucked in his arms. He tilted his head down, hoping to see it there, but all that was there was a thin blanket.

"Father," he began, and there was more to the thought, but Anduin couldn't remember what it'd been.

"It's all right, son," he said, sneaking the hand on Anduin's face to the back of his head and pulling the prince into a gentle and shuddering hug. "You're home."

Another hand rested on his shoulder, and Anduin tensed. A glance told him it was Velen, smiling wide and brilliant back at him, and from the corner of his eye, Anduin saw the prophet's magic, easing his pains away. He wondered if that was why he felt the sensation of sunlight on his skin.

Varian kissed the side of his head. Anduin relaxed, and adjusted his hand to his father's arm. His eyes rolled closed, and he forgot the tablet too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no ~~homework~~ dragon words today, except the title, which is already translated right there.
> 
> an impromptu chapter update, despite having not finished the current one i'm writing, entirely because my friend is sick & she said this would cheer her up & frankly i wanted to post it anyway because said chapter i'm writing is being a pain. luckily, i would say there could've been worse chapters for this series of events to coincide with, so congrats, it could've been, like, chapter—well. you get the idea.
> 
> <3


	20. Voth Sahqo Haal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **content warnings:** blood, injury, eye injury; mentions of dragons eating people (???)

Chapter 20: Voth Sahqo Haal  
"Red-Handed"

———Hearth Fire 13th———

When Wrathion awoke from the same nightmare for the fifth time, he couldn't find the will to even be angry anymore. At this point, he was just fed up with it. He wrinkled his nose at the stars blinking high above him, silently blaming their glow for being too bright and waking him. But he knew, from the cold sweat and faint tremble, that the stars weren't at fault. He ground his teeth together, growling from the back of his throat. Right grumbled. Wrathion glanced at her as she rolled onto her side, putting her back to him, and settled back into her sleep.

Pouting, Wrathion felt anything but tired. In fact, he felt like he was teeming with energy, though he winced at the thought of the phrase, ' _bursting at the seams_ '. He hauled himself into a sit, glancing idly at the campsite laid out around him. The firepit still smoked, albeit only just. The tiny embers Wrathion could see nestled in the wood did nothing to light the camp anymore. Mr. Throne was hitched to a tree and seemed uninterested with the nighttime sounds echoing distantly in the woods.

It would be a long wait for his agents to unearth Neltharion's Wall—longer if Wrathion's nightmares continued. He furrowed his eyebrows at the thought of the dream again. Learning the Shout the draugr had struck him with in Bleak Falls sounded unnerving, if he was being honest with himself, but he knew firsthand what it could do, and after being subjected to it so many times in his sleep, he started to at least admit it'd be a very useful power when turned upon his enemies.

But he couldn't remember the words of power. And even if he could, the words themselves wouldn't do him any good. He'd need context, history—he'd need, preferably, a dragon that knew the Shout, so that Wrathion might unlock its potential through the beast's soul.

He huffed, frustrated, but not as much so as he wanted to be. He couldn't deny, still, that if he never managed to learn the Shout, he'd only be so disappointed. Just thinking about it made veins itch under his skin. He scratched his arm, then scooted across the ground to his things that he'd piled against a rock near the fire. Rifling through them, he quickly found the bag of soul gems his Blacktalon had delivered from Fahrad, and plucked them from the pile, returning to the warm spot he'd been sleeping in prior. A tag slipped off. Wrathion squinted and snatched it, flipping it around to find the words 'Happy Birthday' etched into the square of paper. He rolled his eyes.

He picked one gem out of the bag and pinched its points between a finger and thumb, holding it up against the stars to get a clearer look at it. Unlike Katrana Prestor, Wrathion didn't have any dwarven scrap to make use of, but he suspected the soul gems were the complicated part. If he could figure out how she'd made a mental link with them, replicating the rest of the device should've been simple enough, especially if he persuaded someone better with dwemer technology than him to help. He knew a bit, as the result of sheer curiosity, but the last three years had demanded study of _dragon_ ruins, not dwarven. It could be a good hobby to pick up once he finished off the dragon crisis, though.

Wrathion squinted at the gem for a long time, hoping to unravel Katrana's secrets with enough scrutiny. There were moments he wished he'd given into his impulse to steal the device Bolvar Fordragon had with him in Bleak Falls, but no matter. Perhaps if his agents in Dragonsreach ever got back to him, he'd tell them to find one of the contraptions and bring it to him. Maybe he'd just show up, and give them a piece of his mind. He smirked, imagining their faces.

 _"Part-dwarven technology, part-Conjuration magic."_ That's what Katrana had said when Wrathion asked about the device in Riverwood. She said she'd bound a piece of herself and Bolvar to the gems, somehow, but Wrathion didn't recall her elaborating on that. He'd been more curious about how they worked, not how she'd made them. But then, knowing her, she wouldn't have told him much about that anyway.

He screwed up his nose and dropped the soul gem back into the pile. The concept was desirable—think of how much more efficient he and his Blacktalons could be if they could commune so quickly from such distances. But unless he managed to crack the means of building the devices, there was no point. He should've stolen Bolvar's. Wrathion clucked his tongue.

Sighing, he fell back into the patch of flattened grass he'd claimed as his bed for the night, the ground now cold after so long without him warming it. The stars continued to flicker and blink at him, and he continued to blame them for his problems. For the nightmares and the confusing dwemer devices.

And the fact that Right kept noticing him stalling. Wrathion frowned.

 _Not stalling,_ he assured himself. He was being smart. Deathwing—Neltharion, rather, was evidently no normal dragon. Fahrad said the dragon of the same name from long ago was very powerful, and Wrathion had seen a good bit of that power firsthand. The way the World Breaker taunted him with the obvious difference in their Shouts was all the proof Wrathion had needed to realize that.

And, try as he might (and he _did_ try), he hadn't forgotten that moment Neltharion nearly had him. Lying helpless on the cavern floor, stunned, unsure if his body was paralyzed with fear or literally broken. If he hadn't realized he was outmatched before that moment, he did then, and it made him furious. He was _Dragonborn_ —there was no room to be _afraid_ of him!

Yet the lingering doubt even among his own agents was infuriating. Perhaps because it felt almost like reflections of his own doubt. Failing so blatantly before the World Breaker was laughable. Perhaps this 'friend' hadn't been unjustified to question the legitimacy of Wrathion's claim to the name 'Dragonborn'.

He scowled at the stars. What did some anonymous pen-pal know about it? Nothing, was what. There were no 'infinite possibilities' to the truth, there was only the truth. One Wrathion remembered quite clearly. Killing Creed had been a great help to his pride. Perhaps running this 'friend's' errand at Autumntower would provide a similar boost. At the very least, Wrathion was determined not to let the writer's eerie letter scare him off. Perhaps being wary of Neltharion was with good reason, but he was _not_ afraid of the rest of them.

He sighed again, and craned his head back, pressing the top of his hair against the ground. He saw Throne, though upside-down, idly digging at some dirt with a hoof. The horse glanced at him. He screwed up his nose and flattened against his bed of grass with a huff.

He wouldn't put it off forever. Neltharion would die, just like all the others. But first, Wrathion would find this Wall Fahrad told him about, because he was being smart.

He shifted his jaw. What would that draugr's Shout do to a dragon, he wondered?

The thought made him grin.

———Hearth Fire 13th———

_Thunk._

Katrana blinked, momentarily tense from the sound behind her, but upon turning to face the source, she found it was only Sloan, looking quite reserved. Katrana was not unfamiliar with grief—it had, after all, plagued Dragonsreach for weeks now. The restraint of Sloan's face was nearly incomprehensible. Katrana applauded the control Wrathion's Blacktalons wielded. Yet she saw signs of mourning in the creases of Sloan's brow and in her ironically-named laughter lines. It was there, too, Katrana saw a small speckling of blood.

She smiled. "You've returned."

Sloan didn't move. "They're dead."

"I heard," Katrana said. She left her work, laid out against the back wall, and instead approached the table that separated her from Sloan. It was here she found the cause of the sound from earlier—a leather-bound journal, its leftmost cover smeared red, matching the corner of Sloan's cheek. "This is?"

"The report," Sloan said. "We documented our findings, however scarce, to send to the Dragonborn."

"Mm," was all she offered. She laid a hand on the report, then eyed Sloan. "May I?"

Sloan made no motion to stop her. Katrana slid the book across the table and opened it, skimming through the writing. The Blacktalons were thorough, that was evident—even documenting other happenings unrelated to Katrana within Dragonsreach. Fortunately, it seemed they hadn't managed to figure out the dragonstone's secret, nor what Katrana planned to do with it. Satisfied, she shut it, and looked at Sloan again. Embers crawled around her fingers, and in a flash, the journal was reduced to ashes. The agent tensed then relented, some, from her braced stance. She stared at the ash on the table, her eyes dull as her mind was elsewhere.

"Sloan," Katrana said. The Blacktalon looked at her, but the dullness remained. "What troubles you?"

Sloan pressed her lips into a thin line. She shifted her feet and took a breath. Katrana tilted her head and the pendant around Sloan's neck glowed, catching her eye. The agent relaxed.

"They're dead," she repeated, quieter.

Katrana offered a pity-dressed smile. "They didn't see reason, did they?"

Sloan bit her lip and nodded. Katrana rounded the table and stepped close to the agent, who could only relax further as Katrana fondled the Drakefire Amulet in her fingers. Then she rubbed the blood away from Sloan's cheek with a thumb.

"Remember what we're fighting for, Sloan."

Her eyebrows scrunched together. Katrana resisted a frown.

"Dragons," Sloan said, paused, then went on, "are monsters. They want to destroy—"

"You recite the Dragonborn's lies, my dear," Katrana said.

She saw the word 'Helgen' appear in Sloan's mind, just as it had last night. But Sloan swallowed it, knowing what Katrana would say. Her resistance to the amulet was admirable, if not evidently futile. But Katrana was wary of it. She smiled again.

"Remember what we discussed," she said.

Sloan took a breath, nodding as she recalled. "Deathwing is just the first."

"He, Helgen, and your agents are necessary," Katrana said. "Greater things await."

"Let me talk to the Dragonbor—"

At this, Katrana's smile vanished. Sloan's mouth snapped closed.

"Sloan."

"I can reason with him," the agent argued.

"Like the Blacktalons?"

She tensed, and fell quiet. Katrana smiled once more, with sympathy, or at least something that looked like it.

"The Dragonborn has chosen his side," she said, "as did your comrades. There is no reasoning to do."

"The Blacktalons follow Wrathion," Sloan persisted still. "And Wrathion wants what's best for Skyrim, and all of Tamriel."

"Does he?"

"I can _reason_ with him," she repeated, flaring. "He'll listen to me—"

"He won't," Katrana snapped. "He will only fight his futile war, and when he inevitably falls, he will drag you all down with him."

"Because he thinks they're going to destroy us all," she said. "He thinks—"

"He thinks," Katrana repeated, "and you must know, even better than I, what happens when Wrathion _thinks_ something."

She went quiet again. Katrana's eyes flickered, and the agent winced, annoyed, but relented. Satisfied, Katrana turned away from her and returned to the back wall. Sloan stayed where she was, watching as the court wizard went through the supplies she had there. Sloan squinted, noting scraps of golden metal and reagents associated with Conjuration magic. As she tried to puzzle out Katrana's project on her own, the wizard retrieved something and turned to Sloan, smiling.

"Come here," she said.

An invisible grip tugged Sloan forward, as if by a rope around her neck, and she obeyed. She stopped in front of Katrana, only when the wizard held up a hand, fingertips crackling with a blue-black magic that made Sloan hesitate.

"Don't be nervous," Katrana said. "I'm only simplifying our affiliation. It won't hurt."

Sloan winced. "I doubt that."

Katrana smirked and shrugged. "It won't hurt much."

Sloan glanced down at Katrana's other hand, half-raised and closed with the item she'd grabbed before held inside. Katrana answered Sloan's unasked question by opening her hand, where a soul gem sat in her palm.

Again, Sloan squinted. "What's this supposed to do?"

"It will allow me to communicate with you, even at great distances," Katrana said. She flexed her fingers, and the spell in her hand pulsed. "May I?"

Sloan eyed the magic, wary. "That's?"

"Soul Trap," Katrana said. "A very basic Conjuration spell. It isn't as bad as it sounds."

Sloan remained unsure, but leveled her shoulders and nodded. Katrana moved her hand forward, and the magic surged, startling Sloan, though it hadn't left Katrana's grip. Her fingers curled again, readying the spell, then released it. The bluish tendrils surged forward, sneaking through Sloan's leather and melting beneath the surface of her skin. The sensation was biting, not unlike an electric shock, and forced the agent to wince and shy back. Even as the magic disappeared from sight she felt it, crackling under her skin and in her hair.

Katrana smiled at the progress, then pointed and joined two fingers. A shard of ice formed and zipped past Sloan's temple, slicing the air and, she realized a moment after, a lock of hair. It floated out of sight, but she was more distracted with the blue wisps of magic that had appeared, twirling as if trapped in a current drawn to a drain. Instead it was the soul gem in Katrana's hand the spell retreated to, seeping into the pinkish crystal's surface as it had Sloan before. The gem pulsed with a faint glow, and eventually settled. Katrana tilted her hand, slipping the jewel neatly between two fingers, where she could examine her work under the torchlight in the room. The crackling in Sloan's veins remained.

"Done," Katrana said, and turned to the table behind her again.

Sloan rubbed her arm in an effort to distill the magic under her skin. It didn't help. "And that soul gem will make your communication device?"

Katrana hummed affirmatively as sounds of metal clinking and clicking met Sloan's ears. She leaned on one foot to see past the court wizard, who snapped the golden pieces on the table together, constructing some object no bigger than Sloan's palm. The agent winced reflexively as Katrana put more blue-black spells to use, the wisps twisting and dancing around, as if the magic were a spoiled pet, aware it could get away with such rambunctious behavior with little repercussion.

When she was finished, Katrana turned again and held the device out to Sloan. It was circular, like a somewhat bulbous disk. Sloan received it, twisting the golden device around to get a good look at it. When she popped the door on the front open, she found the soul gem inside, blinking its dim light at her. Sloan scowled.

"I don't underst—"

Her voice came both from her mouth and from the device, causing her to shut the former in alarm. Katrana only looked amused.

"Clever, isn't it?" she said.

Again, Sloan glowered at the contraption, but gave an agreeing grunt. "How does—" The device echoed her voice again and she scowled harder, then snapped it closed. "How does it work?"

"The dwemer had long-distance communication devices," Katrana said and shrugged. "I simply utilized my knowledge of magic to create something reminiscent of their technology."

Sloan pursed her lips, but said nothing else. Katrana held out her hand again, asking for the device, which Sloan returned. Katrana placed it in her robes, then fetched an identical one from the table, fitting that in Sloan's still raised hand.

"Keep this," she said, "and no stretch of land nor sea will bar my voice from you."

"I get the impression you're sending me somewhere."

Katrana smiled. "Maybe," she said. "Actually, it's I who will be leaving soon."

Sloan raised an eyebrow. Katrana nodded toward one of two doors on the back wall, and began that way. Sloan, as instructed, followed her.

"Let's get you out of that armor."

"Should I dispose of it?" Sloan asked.

"Oh, no," Katrana said. "This may not be the last time you have need of the name Blacktalon."

———Hearth Fire 13th———

"Left."

The orc glanced at Syurna, who stared down the small peak they'd perched in to keep a careful but distanced eye on the red dragon. Left followed the other agent's eyes, and counted seven Blacktalons arriving with the dawning sun, including Osborne. So he'd made it to Markarth. Good.

"Wait here," Left said. "Keep watch on the dragon."

Syurna nodded, and Left descended down the rocks to meet with the band of Blacktalons. The leading agent, an imperial man with a height that dwarfed nearly all the agents behind him, even Osborne and another nord, turned attentive upon Left's arrival. Not even he matched Left's stature, however, and was forced to raise his chin to meet her eyes.

"You made it," Left said, crossing her arms.

"Aye," the agent said. "You must be Left. It's a privilege—"

"Name."

He snapped his mouth closed, but only nodded his understanding. "Tony Romano."

Left nodded, then gestured with her head back at the peak she'd climbed down from. "We've managed to find the red. It's injured, and sleeping now."

"Osborne didn't say what exactly you planned to do with it," Tony said.

"We're going to capture it."

She had decided it was better than the risk of it escaping, once sufficiently healed. The red's fire had made impressive progress on its injuries, and Left doubted it would hide here much longer. She didn't want power like its to be available to the rest of the dragons, and she was confident Wrathion didn't either. Her plan was to capture it or kill it trying, and seeing Tony's group, she felt even better about the decision.

Tony, however, looked stunned. "Capture a _dragon_?"

"It's weak," Left reminded him, "and asleep. Now is the time to strike. You're up for it, aren't you?"

It was a rhetorical question, and to her inward gratitude, Tony was sharp. He braced his shocked face and nodded again, and even more gratifying, the agents behind him followed suit. "Just tell us what to do."

Left inhaled. If she'd known she'd be apprehending dragons, she would have given Osborne better orders. There were supplies she wanted and had no way of obtaining quickly. She glanced over Tony's agents. "Do you have a wizard?"

"Belmara. Jorik too," Tony said. At this, a woman stepped forward from the agents—the other nord, and was joined by another imperial man. "Belmara is an abjurist, and Jorik knows a bit of Conjuration."

Left squinted at Tony.

"I specialize in protection spells and the like," Belmara explained. "Things like wards, and, magic suppression."

Left straightened some, interested. "Good," she said. "We'll need that." She looked at Jorik. "And you?"

"Turning magic into weapons," Jorik answered, "as well as creatures."

Left grunted and gave a nod, admittedly pleased with her luck. The wizards would make this much easier—and, maybe even possible. She adjusted herself, returning to her calm.

"Who are your fastest?"

"Ormok and Rane," Tony said, nodding first to an orc behind him, then to a dark elf.

Left looked them both over. The dark elf, Rane, hardly looked like more than skin and bones, though if she came from Windhelm like many dark elves did, Left wasn't sure she had room to be surprised. Her size at least made her a small and allegedly quick target to try and catch. As for Ormok, Left noted that he, like her, was as strong as any orc should be, but built in a way many of their fellow warriors might scoff at. His and Left's strength was not so much in their size, but their speed and their wit.

Still, Left worried neither Rane nor Ormok, like Osborne, who was also very fast, would hold up in a brawl with a dragon as well as one of those warriors might. She shifted her jaw.

"And," she started, glancing over the remaining agents, "who can take a hit?"

Tony gave a single laugh. "Darnath."

The lone wood elf in the new group straightened some, and looking at him, the only one who met her height, Left agreed that he looked the most able to withstand physical combat. The sword on his back was daunting, and the way its tip nearly resembled a sickle certainly wouldn't feel good cutting through anyone's flesh. Left grunted, satisfied, and gestured Syurna down from the peak.

"Listen up."

Not ten minutes later, the Blacktalons were in position. The red slept still, its wing mended but evidently raw from its recent injury. Scales remained missing, stripped by the agents' daggers, though the flesh beneath had mostly fused back together, leaving a rugged seam where the two edges of the wound met. The red's sleep seemed troubled, and that made even more room for error. Left watched the beast, aware of each crevice of the ridges her agents hid within, awaiting their signals. She glanced next to her with only her eyes, where Syurna and the abjurist, Belmara, hid amidst the rocks with her. Left said nothing, and neither did the two agents beside her. They were all smarter than that.

The red shifted in its sleep and grumbled. Left grimaced. It could wake at any time. She had to get started.

She moved, silently, and the keen Blacktalons with her were prompt to follow suit. Left didn't have to watch her feet; she knew how to prowl under the protection of shadows and how to take advantage of what sounds carried where around her. To the red, any noise she made—and it was minimal—was nonexistent. To her relief, the same proved true for Syurna and Belmara.

They reached the location of the first signal. From somewhere unseen, Ormok, Osborne and Rane would emerge from the ridges, armed with light, quick weapons that would glint threateningly and, Left hoped, would preoccupy the dragon. Darnath would be with them, tucked out of the red's reach unless he should be needed to relieve the faster rogues of too much attention. Tony and Jorik would hang back in the shadows, scouring the scene for errors.

Left, Syurna and Belmara reached their destination. Left spared one last glance at the wizard, who nodded her affirmation, then glanced toward the other group of four. With a momentary gesture of her hand, Jorik, from his hiding place, let out an ear-splitting whistle. The red jolted, stunned, and was immediately jumped by the four rogues in front of it.

Ormok, Osborne and Rane worked seamlessly together, their attacks as swift as their dodges, successful in enraging the dragon while simultaneously making catching the rogues nothing less than a nightmare for the beast. That combined with the lingering fog of restless sleep, Darnath had little trouble plunging his curved blade into the dragon's collarbone and tearing a vicious gash through the soft underbelly.

The dragon wailed, and under the stress of pain and fury, failed to sense Belmara's spell take hold of its magic. So far, so good.

"I'll need time," she announced to Left, her face contorted as she worked with all her strength to collapse the dragon's power.

"Make it quick," Left told her. The wizard didn't complain.

A booming Shout echoed across the ridge, and hellfire exploded from the dragon's mouth, searing the earth it touched. Darnath avoided it, and the others had never been close enough to be at risk. The three designated distractions hurried to reclaim the dragon's attention, but the red was enraged with Darnath and sought him out through the dizzying haze of the rogues. The earth crashed and shook under the beast's weight, as Darnath struggled to move away but not too far, else Belmara's spell might break off and the process would need to be restarted.

A complicated flurry of whistles, courtesy of Jorik, chimed over the ridge, directed at the dragon and thus hurting its ears most of all. It swung its head toward the painful commotion, allowing Rane time to perch her feet in Osborne's hands and launch onto the dragon's nose. It snarled and Shouted fire, but the flames exploded harmlessly in the air, as Rane's dagger tore out one of the red's eyes. The dragon reeled, shrieking, its pained cry like a Shout in and of itself with the force that exploded into the ridge. The sound and the thrashing of the dragon's head dislodged Rane from its snout. She was caught, barely and in midair, by Ormok, who went to land on a jutting stone.

The red recovered, though, and put its Voice to better use. " **Gaan** **Lah Haas**!"

What burst forth was not red flames, but a blur of purple magic that struck Ormok and Rane down. They crashed amidst the rocks, the impact tearing Rane from Ormok's grip, and once their bodies stilled they did not move again. Darnath wailed in anger—though he was as unsure as the others what the Shout had done to them—and brandishing his blade, he charged forth to strike the dragon.

Syurna screamed something to him, in Bosmeri, though Left only understood the use of the other wood elf's name. Snarling, the orc turned to Belmara. "Wizard!"

"I'm trying!" Belmara snapped. "Dragons aren't like mortalkind!"

Darnath closed in on the red, who struggled with its one eye to see, but still managed to strike the earth close enough to Darnath that he staggered. Syurna appeared at his side and dragged him back before the red could take a second swing, and they both narrowly avoided being skewered on the dragon's talons. The force of the wind that followed, however, served to stumble Darnath further, and he was forced to a knee, his weight dragging smaller, lighter Syurna down beside him. Words welled in the dragon's maw, followed by a mouthful of flames.

Whistling bounced off the northern ridges in the clearing, but this time the dragon didn't look. It nearly unleashed the fire, but from the same place as the whistling came a blur of ethereal blue, which shrieked in the dragon's face and drew precise gashes across its nose. The dragon's head lurched back from the thing's claws, and its fire exploded uselessly in its mouth and around its face, causing no harm to the dragon, but wasting its Shout even so. Syurna caught a look at the ghostly blur—a falcon, of some sort. A Conjured familiar.

The falcon circled around and struck at the red again, who this time opened its mouth and snapped its teeth closed around the spell, shattering it into light and dust. It was enough of a distraction that Jorik, nearly as agile as the three, had time to descend into the fray and, Conjuring a misty knife in his hand, land on the dragon's neck and drive the blade into the flesh there. Wisps of blue-black magic exploded from the wound, ensnaring the dragon and then seeping into its scales, leaving electric pricks in their wake. It gave Syurna, joined by Osborne, time to drag Darnath to his feet and move back, while Tony arrived, a short sword in his left hand, to cover their retreat. The red thrashed, and Jorik, smartly, leapt away before he could be thrown aside as Rane had, landing beside Tony.

The dragon growled out words of power, and fire bloomed once more in its mouth. Tony and Jorik shifted, prepared to flee the flames, but when the dragon unleashed them they vanished almost instantly, stolen by the wind. The red snarled, confused, and finally sensed the wane on its magic.

It spun toward Left and Belmara, the latter still hurrying to suppress the last of the dragon's magic. Aware that its Shouts were weakened, the dragon launched its great head forward. Belmara stepped back, but her retreat was slow, forced to instead brace herself so as to not break the spell. Left, knowing this, took aim and fired a crossbow bolt into the dragon's bleeding eye. It reeled back, and in a fit of lost sense it Shouted, but even less fire answered the beast's Voice.

"I've got it!" Belmara said.

"Go!" Left shouted.

Darnath was prompt to respond to his signal. Tony and Jorik took their places in Ormok and Rane's absence and joined Osborne, claiming the dragon's attention with threatening speed, allowing Darnath to come forward, daunting sword in hand, and, when the dragon went to snap its teeth at Tony, drive the clawed tip of his blade into the beast's skull, spilling blood and knocking its chin against the earth. The dragon snarled, Shouting for fire and producing none, allowing Darnath to focus only on not being caught in its teeth as Tony, Jorik and Osborne skirted the red and, with Jorik's Conjuration magic and Tony and Osborne's help, impaling each wing with the bladed arms of frost atronachs. The dragon thrashed beneath the iced restraints, but its affinity to fire was its undoing, as was Belmara's suppression spell. The atronachs and the struggle sapped the dragon's stamina, and though the minutes were long and tireless, they ended, and with them, the dragon's strength to resist. It surrendered to its binds, every tense muscle crashing to the earth, where at last it let out a great, pained sigh.

Left, similarly, let go of a breath she felt like she'd been holding for the entire fight. The dragon continued to growl, and occasionally shift, but its exhaustion was evident and, so long as Jorik and Belmara held their respective spells, it wouldn't be escaping. She almost couldn't believe it, but then, she'd lucked out this long when it came to dragons.

"Darnath—" Syurna started.

Left looked, and saw Darnath hurry to Ormok and Rane. Tony and Osborne were right behind him, but even from her distance, Left saw the downed rogues stirring. They weren't dead, then. She looked at the dragon again, who scoffed at the sight of the recovering agents. Something seemed off about the passive reaction to its failure, but Left dismissed the thought.

"Do you understand me?" she asked.

The dragon looked to her, its glare burning, but it said nothing. It only gave another stressed sigh, then scrunched its uninjured eye closed. It was in significant pain, Left could see. She harrumphed in turn, then glanced at Syurna, who remained near her.

"Watch it," she said. Syurna nodded, and Left approached the group of Blacktalons addressing Ormok and Rane. She watched them for a moment and crossed her arms. "How are they?"

"Alive," Tony said, relieved. "It seems the dragon only sapped their strength."

Ironic, considering that'd been their plan too. Left grumbled. "Will they recover?"

"Yes, it seems like."

"Good," Left said. "Leave them to me. You and Darnath are going to Markarth."

Darnath glanced at her, his eyes flaring. "What? Left—"

"I'm not about to ask your wizards to exert all their strength on subduing this dragon," Left said. "I know enough about magic to know that isn't sensible."

The wood elf went to object further, but Tony raised his hand. "What do you need in Markarth?"

"Supplies," Left answered. "Something to hold this beast down when the wizards can't."

Tony nodded. "Will do." He glanced at Darnath, who submitted with a small huff.

"Better make it fast," he said. "Their magic won't hold forever."

"Aye," Tony agreed. He stood, and so did Darnath, as the imperial faced Left again. "We'll return by sundown."

Left thought that optimistic, but she would appreciate being proven wrong. "Good."

"Take care of them, Left," Darnath said.

Left scoffed. She looked to Osborne. "How are you?"

"Okay," he answered. He took a deep breath to steady himself. "What do you need?"

She uncrossed her arms and unearthed Zelanis' report from her armor, handing it to Osborne. "Find the Dragonborn," she said. "Report what we've learned tracking Deathwing. And tell him we've captured a red dragon."

Osborne gave a shaken nod and received the report. Left scrutinized him for a moment, then nodded back.

"Get moving," she said to the three of them, and turned to approach the dragon. "Syurna," she called ahead. "Take care of the wounded."

"On it!" Syurna said, and traded places with the orc. Darnath, seeing this, relaxed, and Left heard him mumble something gentle to the other wood elf in Bosmeri.

She stopped listening once she heard the three assigned rogues departing, and focused again on the dragon. "You have a name, don't you?" she asked.

The dragon peeled open its healthy eye, the hot glare from before now dull, like a dying candle. What came out of its mouth, for a moment, sounded to Left like nondescript growls.

"Nust faan hi Vahlut."

She squinted. Wrathion may have spoken fluent dragon, and Right might have found it entertaining to play with, but Left had other priorities.

Seeing this, the dragon adjusted. "Left," it said. "They call you Left."

"Then you do speak mortal tongues," was all she answered with.

The dragon harrumphed.

"Continue to do that," Left said. "I have questions."

It shut its eyes again. "Mortals always have questions."

"Where did you come from?"

It scoffed, a vaguely amused sound beneath the exhaustion and pain. "Let me sleep, Vahlut."

"You've slept plenty," she growled. "If nothing else, give me your name."

The red tilted its head, considering, and finally surrendered one last sigh.

"Vaelastrasz," it said. "That is my name."

———Hearth Fire 13th———

It was the morning chill that woke Neltharion first. The southwestern edge of Keizaal—Skyrim, the little mortals called it—was swamped in a perpetual fog. Neltharion had struggled to travel through it in the night, though he doubted the mortals had half as much trouble seeing him through it. Not with the way his body cracked, revealing power deep within his core that glowed like his own fiery breath.

And, of course, this infuriating injury. That had been what _kept_ him awake, once the morning air settled its teeth into his scales.

Neltharion snarled as the wound burned, ever aching in his chest, its power seeping deep down into him where it blazed brighter and stronger than the volcanic soul peeking through the cracks in his flesh. It never stopped, not even as that worthless Vaelastrasz mended it. Useless reds and their magic.

The World Breaker had hoped, vaguely, upon snuffing that old ofangein wizard in that little village, _that_ would be his last encounter with mortals capable of commanding such terrible magic. But that had been foolish of him to think, and he'd learned as much within that crypt, where the little nord prince worsened the wound by leaps and bounds, and stole away the fun of burning the  Dovahkiin into Oblivion.

Neltharion snorted, and a great gust of smoke burst from his nostrils. He hoped, if Hiram was remotely competent, that the both of them were rotting on that mountain right now.

But they weren't. At least, the Dovahkiin wasn't. Either that, or those screeching Tongues were wasting their breath crying for him. Again, Neltharion grunted out a cloud of smoke. Hiram would be wise not to show his face to the World Breaker again. If the Dovahkiin hadn't already devoured him, Neltharion just might.

A wind picked up, and it swiped at Neltharion's chest. The dragon snarled, twisting to try and shelter his wounds from further aggravation. He curled his lips. Mortals were so troublesome. He still wanted to swallow that little prince whole, and let his stomach burn and shred the boy until there was nothing left of him.

Ahrolsedovah. The Hill of Dragons. That was the name of the prince's hideous little city—or at least, its name in his tongue. He believed _Whiterun_ was what the mortals called it. Were they too arrogant to call it a hill of dragons? Neltharion scoffed out a laugh. The only color that'd be running through that city would be the red of blood and fire.

Oh, that was tempting. Soaring out to that hill in the heart of Keizaal and swallowing the city in hellfire, just as he had that little village. That was very tempting.

Neltharion snorted and laid his chin in the grass. Tempting, but something he'd need time to plan for. After all, this frigid wasteland was apparently teeming with those light-wielding wizards he loathed so. Later.

It did make him think, though. Hiram and Vaelastrasz were both brought back through Neltharion's graces by necessity. Hiram's tomb within the mountain was simply convenient—he was, after all, right there. As for Vaelastrasz, he was the result of Neltharion's injuries, as the World Breaker hoped he could mend the nasty, glowing gashes. And he did, if with minimal success. The rest, simply luck of the draw.

But now, Neltharion had a different kind of necessity. One of great power. One that demanded something more than incompetent Hiram and worthless Vaelastrasz. Something robust. Something clever.

He needed something _nefarious_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [dragon translations](http://textuploader.com/aqcpb)
> 
>  
> 
> uh oh.


	21. Fos Bo Um

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **content warnings:** death ( & decaying), decapitation, hallucinations, burns, frozen bodies(???); mentions of surgery & amputation

Chapter 21: Fos Bo Um  
"What Comes Around"

———Hearth Fire 13th———

"High Hrothgar?"

The progress in Helgen was only so much, a month after it was utterly devastated by the first dragon attack in centuries. Rell Nightwind stood in a city, drenched with rain, cleared of the fire and visible corpses, with steps being made to haul out the rubble. The latter still crowded the streets and demanded some care when navigating through it, and more often than not, it hid even more bodies. Between the Imperial Legion, Prince Anduin's regiment and the normal residents all being present the day Deathwing came, Rell could only be so surprised. But he had arrived in Helgen with the first of Whiterun's dispatches following the attack, and he had stayed ever since. The progress was slow, but the difference was plain to him.

"That's right," Katrana said—her voice, rather, carried through a dwarven instrument of her own design. "Highlord Fordragon wants answers."

She'd told Rell earlier that the Dragonborn's agents had turned up dead in Dragonsreach. They found three bodies, all expertly executed but hidden quickly. It seemed whoever had killed them didn't feel like they had time to move the bodies someplace more discreet. Rell had heard both summons from the Kirin Tor—Helgen wasn't very far from the Throat of the World, after all—and apparently, it'd been the Dragonborn they were calling for, who had since assured Whiterun he would answer.

Which was how Rell wound up with his new orders.

"Three Blacktalons are dead," he said without heat, "and you don't know who's responsible?"

"It's the highlord's hope that the Dragonborn might shed some light on it for us," Katrana said. "If nothing else, he can at least tell us why his agents are snooping around Dragonsreach."

"I suppose," Rell said, furrowing his eyebrows.

After Bleak Falls, which Rell had heard only the key details of, he would have thought it'd be easy enough to simply ask for whatever the Dragonborn had instead sent Blacktalons for. But Rell was not without knowledge of the old rumors that plagued the 'Infamous Dragonborn's' name. He might have been a hero to Whiterun now, but not a month ago, he was a folktale, and a notorious one at that. Perhaps resorting to such questionable action was to be expected. Rell had certainly heard enough word that working with Wrathion meant throwing standard procedure to the wind.

"The highlord wants you to go to Hrothgar, get your answers and come straight back to Dragonsreach," Katrana said. "I'm sure Helgen is stable enough to accommodate your leave?"

"It is," Rell said. He glanced at the city around him, crowded in soldiers and civilians alike as, slowly but surely, Helgen was restored. "I'll take someone with me."

"That would be ideal," Katrana said, the coy smile on her face almost audible to Rell. "Keep me posted. I'm never far from my study."

"Of course, Lady Prestor," Rell said, and winced as something crossed his mind. "Oh, there's something King Wrynn should..."

He stopped himself when he realized the soul gem in the device had dimmed, signaling Katrana's disconnection. Rell frowned and closed the contraption, pocketing it as he looked over the area. He saw some Whiterun soldiers milling about, ignorant to the rain, but none of them were who he had in mind. Scratching his cheek, he set out for the yard of Helgen's military keep, which had been thoroughly repurposed for a great deal of things, including as a medical ward-slash-morgue. There were no more survivors to find this late into things, but injuries were sustained by those working within the city and corpses, of course, just never seemed to stop surfacing from the carnage.

Amidst the stretches of blanketed bodies were what remained of the medics and healers. Many of them had either moved on to help with the property damage or were simply sent back to Falkreath or Whiterun, but those that stayed had taken it upon themselves to identify any bodies they could. It was here Rell expected to find who he was looking for, and did with minimal trouble.

Mishka sat with her legs folded to her left side as she examined one of the corpses from the safety of a canopy. This one was unique among the masses—beheaded, for one, and not expertly, but crudely in the aftermath of battle. The rest of his body, Rell was told, smoldered in a sacked hideout southwest of Helgen. The head had been recovered from the city's wreckage only in the last day, from the crushed Legionnaires that had guarded it and the small box it'd been dumped into. Mishka's job was to officially identify it for Whiterun, though Falkreath promised it was who they'd told the soldiers it was. But Mishka had to make sure, even if it meant trying to name a severed head that had been rotting in a crumbled city for a month.

"How goes it?" Rell asked.

"Oh, it's him all right," Mishka said, presently rifling through documents whose relevance to her work, Rell was unsure of. She sighed. "Nearly two decades later."

Rell hummed, glancing at the head. He took Mishka's word for it, but it looked indistinguishable from all the other month-old corpses he'd seen lately.

"I'm almost finished with the paperwork," Mishka said. "Dragonsreach will need to see it."

"We'll be headed that way soon," Rell said.

Mishka twisted in her place on the ground, eyeing the wood elf with a questioning crook of the brow. Rell shifted, aligning his shoulders.

"I've been ordered to track down the Dragonborn at High Hrothgar and ask him some questions," he explained. "I'm looking for someone to accompan—"

"Oh!" Mishka was on her feet before he could fully close his mouth after her interruption. "Are you asking me?"

"You haven't had much to do once the demand for medics passed," Rell said. He glanced at the bodies surrounding them. "I don't think this is your first choice of work."

"It's not the worst," she said, tilting her head with a small pout. She straightened again. "But I could use a field trip. What kind of questions?"

"Some of the Dragonborn's associates turned up dead in Dragonsreach last night," Rell said.

" _Dead?_ " Mishka repeated, her head dropping forward some in disbelief. "What are Blacktalons doing at Dragonsreach?"

"That's what we're going to find out," Rell said.

Mishka shifted her jaw back and forth, but resigned to the answer. "I take it we're to report back to Dragonsreach right after?"

"We are," Rell said, and nodded at the documents in her hand. "You can turn those in when we do."

Mishka scooped a satchel off the ground and stuck the papers inside, swinging the thing over her shoulder. Satisfied, Rell turned and reentered the rain, wary of the bodies laid about under his feet. Mishka rolled her head along her shoulders, popping stiff muscles that had wound up there, as droplets settled in her dampening hair.

"That's good news, though," Rell piped up after a moment, glancing at a carriage half-submerged in rubble. A torn Whiterun banner stuck out of the wreckage.

Mishka hummed as she watched the workers pry debris away from the collapsed tavern up the road. Then, realizing she didn't know what he meant, she looked at him, quirking her eyebrow curiously.

Rell caught her looking and smiled. "The head you identified," he said.

Her mouth popped open in a silent 'oh', and she smiled back. "First Prince Anduin comes home, and now this?" She couldn't help but give a delighted laugh. "Whiterun's going to have a field day."

———Hearth Fire 17th———

It was raining today.

And for once, Anduin appreciated more than grieved the storm's shower battering the windows. It was a constant and prompt reminder that the sky was right there, and not lost above who knows how much earth. Perhaps that was the point of this rainfall. If not, it was at least a positive result of it—he could use those.

Anduin watched the drops crawl down the glass. There wasn't much else to do. He hadn't left his bed since he woke up, much less his room. He had, however, tried to sit up more times than Velen could count, yet they remained not enough tries to Anduin, even as his body made it quite clear it wasn't a good idea. He never got farther than that, instead freezing up in place, realizing there was nowhere to go. He felt restless—he'd been doing so much sitting around. Now here, but before that it was Bleak Falls, and before _that_ it was the long trip from the Imperial City. And even as weakness clung to him—a perpetual phantom burn plagued every inch of him to one degree or another—he couldn't help but keep trying to sit up every time Velen turned his back.

He was so tired of sitting around.

He huffed, laying now, and turned his eyes to the ceiling, but he was thinking about other things. He recalled a time in which he knew the joists and rafters in his room like the back of his own hand, yet now he found them unfamiliar. Every time his eyes drifted out of focus, he thought instead of other things, like that room in Riverwood. He felt like he'd spent an eternity there. Maybe the constant view of ceiling architecture was just messing with him. It sure didn't make him feel any less restless. He shut his eyes and sighed again.

At least his leg didn't hurt, ignoring the false searing of what he was told was infection and lingering dragon magic. Velen had some kind of remedy made, and he asked Anduin, periodically, to cast a wave of magic from whichever places hurt the most at the moment. Anduin curled his toes under the blanket, even though every time he did, the sensation that was his left foot answering and his right failing to do the same unnerved him completely. He couldn't feel them, yet simultaneously _could_. With his eyes closed like this, it was as if his toes responded to every command, but that wasn't true. He knew the leg was gone, of course—Velen had said as much, and Anduin hadn't forgotten the surgery—at least, what parts of it he'd been conscious for, before he mercifully blacked out and dreamt of Helgen.

A deep frown sunk into his face. For however long it'd been—a month, more, he'd honestly lost count—he'd been struggling to recall Helgen. Now he did, after the shock of waking settled, in excruciatingly crisp detail, and he wasn't sure how to feel about it. He wasn't relieved, but he wasn't exactly distressed either. Maybe he'd finally just spent all his allocated feelings on it. Maybe there was nothing left _to_ feel about it. He found he could apply that to a lot of things lately. Everything was numb and muffled, as if he were detached from all of it, caught between that plane and another.

As for his leg—well. _I am a healer,_ he told himself, a routine at this point. And he was—his studies focused on that, in part because it was what he wanted to pursue, and in part because most else of the Restoration branch was heavily saturated in laws and treaties and not safely accessible in an academic sense these days. He was, because he spent so much of his time in Cyrodiil with the sick, the wounded, the scarred. Amputations were not new to him, and he was never one to stop short at one aspect of a person—be it scars or scales—and forget to see the rest of them. He was a healer.

He'd been warned in Riverwood of what was to come, and even before that, it was hard to argue with the damage, as he struggled to mend it in Bleak Falls. He had dreaded it, yet something in him had always beat around the bush. When people spoke of it, his impulse was to say, _"Of course,"_  because what else was there to expect? _Of course_ there was no salvaging it. _Of course_ it would be amputated. Yet, waking to find it gone...

At least it hurt a lot less this way. His frown only worsened.

The air turned heavy, and squinting through closed eyes, Anduin felt something hot on his skin. The infection had a habit of fluctuating, worsening and improving at random intervals, their unpredictability turning to perpetuity as Velen's medicines and treatments wore off. When it got bad, it was as if he stood too close to the sun itself. The heat of Helgen it reminded him of was unnerving beyond compare. It closed in, like a physical weight, burning his blood until it would relent to his healing, like a broken fever or the snuffed flame of a candle.

Something rumbled, and Anduin felt frightening yellow eyes bore through his closed own.

He bolted upright, snuffing the infection's fire in a panicked surge of magic. Sparks and stars fell around him, harmless, itching for injuries to mend. There was nothing in the room. No yellow eyes, no quaking dragon's voice. He stared, at but not _at_ the wall across the room, as those searing eyes scarred his vision even now. He became aware of the pattering rain outside.

Those were not Deathwing's eyes. Dragon eyes, yes, but not Deathwing's and not Creed's either. He was absolutely certain of this. He had never seen them before, and yet felt like he'd known them his entire life, but no matter how long he obsessed over it, he couldn't remember where he'd seen them before, aside from nightmares and, well, right now.

But he had seen them before, as truly impossible as he knew that was.

He breathed, finally, and with it came the unwinding of his body. The infection was only a mild heat under his skin now, as if it had been the imaginary stare that angered it.

Dragon magic was strange, and very frightening.

A knock at the door pulled him away from his thoughts, back into the room with the pattering rain. "Come in," he answered, somewhat automatically.

It was Velen who came through the door, accompanied by Umbrua, carrying something with her. The prophet paused upon seeing the prince, glancing over his half-sat position in bed. Anduin decided to speak before he could be chided about it.

"Master Velen," he greeted, failing an attempted smile and hiding it with an acknowledging nod. "Umbrua."

Umbrua smiled and nodded back, her curled hair bobbing with the gesture. Velen accepted the evidence of Anduin's health and relaxed, with that knowing look of his, then continued into the room.

"You look well," he said.

"I feel well," Anduin lied.

Velen smiled keenly at him. Anduin decided not to push his luck further.

"May I look?" the prophet asked.

Anduin nodded, and watched as Velen pulled the corner of the blanket aside. The right sleeve of his pants had been rolled up for as long as Anduin could recall, giving the prophet easy access to the leg itself, currently swaddled in bandages and ointment. He braced himself as Velen went to touch the edge, but to a mix of relief and worry, the wound remained too numb for him to feel anything even as the infection's burn had crept in. It, like all things, made Anduin feel just slightly out of kilter with the rest of the world. As Velen went to unravel the bandages, Anduin distracted himself with the box Umbrua held in her arms.

"What's that?"

Umbrua didn't look at the container; she only smiled at the prince. "Preparations."

Anduin blinked. "For?"

"Your prosthesis."

The weight of the word was something akin to a brick, and he blinked several more times to push the sparks out of his eyes. He forgot, multiple times, that a leg was being—ah— _crafted_ for him. He thought that was a pretty forgivable thing to forget though. He stared at the crate, with something twisting in his stomach, two feelings he couldn't untangle from each other. One was familiar enough to tentatively name 'dread' for the moment, and the other was—something else. Something very different from dread. Not excitement—not even relief, but something like that, only muted to the point of near-neutrality. It was the feeling, though, that dulled the edge of the dread. The thought of being able to walk again, at all, made all the sitting around feel marginally less endless, and the loss of his leg, well, tolerable. It fought those feelings off just enough that he managed to utilize it as a distraction.

"Can I try it on?"

"Preparations!" Umbrua repeated with a nice smile. "You need to be fitted. Many times!"

"Oh," Anduin said. The sense of endlessness settled right back in, but he ignored it and pushed on about this series of fittings. "Then, can we start?"

"Not yet," Velen said, teasing, as he still examined Anduin's leg.

Anduin resisted a petty look at the prophet—privately celebrating that his impulse had been to be petty at all, opposed to just numb. His eyes were drawn down to his leg, though, before the dread could avert them for what it promised was his protection. He held his breath, and saw Velen's hands pause; he felt the prophet looking at him, but couldn't manage to look back. He could see the edges of his scars from here, where the skin had been folded and stitched together. They remained somewhat red and swollen, but mostly it was just the fact that his leg simply _ended_ that was unnerving to him.

He promised himself, over and over, he'd get used to it.

Velen continued to watch him, and now his concern was permeating the air like a humidity, and Anduin found it just the slightest bit more bearable to force words through the brambly wreckage of his lungs and closed throat.

"How is it?" he asked.

"Improving," Velen said, never voicing his worry. Anduin sensed a heavy bit of relief, as the prophet privately thanked Katrana for her assistance. "You'll be on your feet again soon."

Anduin wasn't sure how close 'soon' really was, but he nodded anyway. Umbrua spoke up, in Draenei, and Anduin knew just enough of the language to determine it was a question about his leg. The prophet glanced at her, considering.

"Yes, I suppose that's fine," he said.

Umbrua smiled, pleased, and approached Anduin's bedside. She adjusted the crate in her arms. "You wish to start the fitting?"

Anduin tensed, and felt the impulse to look at his leg again, but dread fended it off this time. He nodded again.

Umbrua only looked more satisfied—not oblivious to his anxiety, but perhaps trying to act normal regardless of it—as she set the crate down for easy access. She held out her hand, and after glancing at Velen for approval, Anduin pulled his right leg free of the blankets and set the residual limb, as Velen referred to it, in Umbrua's hand. She was as gentle holding it as the prophet was, though Anduin suspected he wouldn't have felt it through the numbing agents of the ointment either way. Even so, his body ached with a faint tension, and he felt his mind trying to return to a time when beating around bushes had put off the inevitable well enough.

"Stretch your leg, please," Umbrua said.

Anduin did, and followed every instruction after, as Umbrua measured the limb in varying places. Nothing clicked—there was no instant gratification, no eureka moment—but he did feel something gradually sliding into a comfortable resting position in his head as, despite it all, what was left of his leg was still undeniably his. His toes could not curl, and he had fixated on this, and lost sight of all else—but his knee could bend, and he could feel the muscles in his thigh acting out every thought. In a way, the process was almost therapeutic. He'd hardly looked at his leg until now, bearing some fear of what would happen if he did. But sitting here, moving the muscles and learning how it worked now; it all felt a little better.

"When is soon?" he asked, tilting his head toward Velen, though his eyes stayed transfixed on his leg as Umbrua worked.

Velen gave a soft laugh. "We'll see," he said. "But we must be patient."

Anduin nodded. He suddenly wasn't sure he was ready to dive headlong into anything anyway, despite the restlessness that ate away at him. Umbrua finished her last measurement and let his leg down gently, so that it could sit alongside his whole left one. He flexed the toes on his left, and even with his eyes open, he still felt imaginary muscles and nerves on the right. His toes couldn't curl, but it was not because they hadn't tried, and he thought, perhaps, he could live with that.

"That'll get us started on the leg," Umbrua said, and offered a pleased smile. "It will serve you well," she promised.

He mustered a smile back at her, and succeeded where he had before failed.

———Hearth Fire 17th———

Tony hadn't lied about what quick work he'd make of his and Darnath's errand. Left was stunned, honestly, but glad. The Blacktalons had returned quickly, while the sky was still red, and brought with them more than enough supplies to restrain the dragon, especially with the added, periodic maintenance of Belmara's suppression magic and Jorik's frost atronachs. With the three combined, Vaelastrasz wouldn't be going anywhere.

Unfortunately, Left couldn't restrain him into talking.

The red had spent most of his time sleeping his wounds away, as he was mostly without the means to heal himself. Tony had brought medical supplies, the clever thing, and Left had dedicated much of them to Vaelastrasz's wounds. She had little intention of mending him, but allowing the dragon to decline was simply unnecessary. She wanted to interrogate him, after all—and while she loathed dragons, if she intended to kill one, she wouldn't leave it drained of magic and at the mercy of whatever infection ate away at it first.

On the rare occasion the beast did speak, it was mostly in that guttural language Left didn't understand. If he did it with spite—and Left suspected he did—it was a very low-key, passive spite. Not the sort of acidic, volatile fire Wrathion would scald her with. It was just as obnoxious, but the lack of shouting at least spared her the migraine.

Even now, Vaelastrasz slept with deep, labored breaths. The sun crept through the afternoon, peeking out of recently dispersed rain clouds periodically, and as Left watched, she grew insufferably more impatient with the dragon. Deathwing was wherever he'd fled, and while Osborne had surely dispatched as many Blacktalons as were available to track him down, Left found not knowing where he was to be agonizing. Not just that, but she'd lost two agents when she lost him. She was lucky she hadn't lost Ormok and Rane, too, but they had recovered from Vaelastrasz' Shout, and stood watch around the clearing with the rest. Her losses were abhorrent, and no matter how long she spent digesting those facts, her stomach remained sour.

And there was Vaelastrasz, wasting her time. He was hardly worth what she'd lost, but he was better than nothing. Or, so she'd thought upon capturing him, but she doubted it more every day. She surrendered to her frustration again, and whipped around, ponytail striking out, to address the dragon.

"Beast."

Vaelastrasz grumbled vaguely in his sleep, but Left was tired of it. She kicked his snout, pointedly striking one of his cuts. The dragon snarled, lurching, but his restraints prevented him from rising or breathing fire. He glared with his one eye at Left, scoffing up big wafts of smoke. Left, aside from the frustrated scowl she already wore, was unfazed.

"Speak," she growled.

The dragon puffed more smoke. "Vir lingrah fen hi—"

Left struck his nose again. The dragon bucked, harder, and she wondered, in the back of her mind, if the rampant snarling that ensued was not actually a flurry of swears.

" _Speak_."

Vaelastrasz reined in the hissing tantrum, though his one-eyed glare was as scalding as Wrathion's outbursts. With a smoking sigh, he spoke in a tongue she knew.

"You ask the wrong questions, Vahlut."

Left only glowered at the dragon, so Vaelastrasz chose to continue.

"Where is the one you call Dinokviing... Deathwing." He rumbled out another sigh. "That is no question I have an answer to."

"Then what's his plan?" Left asked. "You discussed quite a lot when you healed him."

"Geh," Vaelastrasz agreed. "Most of our conversation was..." the red scrunched his eyes closed, annoyed, "lost _galv_. "

Left pulled back her foot.

" _Was whining_ ," he clarified with a venomous snarl. "The Lein Kreniik spoke much about the wounds he endured on the mountain. Veyd Mah. You call it Bleak Falls."

"Did he tell you what caused them?" she asked. Restoration magic, she knew, but _how_ had that wounded Deathwing?

"Hah," Vaelastrasz grinned. "What fool would I be to tell you that? The Lein Kreniik would devour my bones."

Left said nothing, but her eyebrow twitched when the dragon paused, and, seemingly subdued, released a softer sigh.

"Membrah hei al mok diist," he grumbled to himself. He opened his eye to Left again. "He also complained of my mouth. The Lein Kreniik believes I am not compliant enough."

Left hoped that was the only thing she had in common with the so-called World Breaker.

"There is nothing else of our conversation to recount," Vaelastrasz said.

"Except what caused his wounds."

"I told you, Vahlut: I am not foolish enough to tell you such things."

"Fine," she said. "Then tell me where you're coming from."

"Dov?" Vaelastrasz gave a few hearty laughs. "We have always been and will always be. We were at the beginning, and will be at the end. We are unslaad. We do not come, for we never went. We are."

"You haven't 'been' for centuries."

Vaelastrasz let out a long, throaty hum. "So it seems, but you misunderstand what it means to 'be', Vahlut."

"I misunderstand nothing. There's been no sign of dragons."

"Nor is there sign of the sun, when Keizaal is dark. Yet..." Vaelastrasz scoffed, amused; "has your sun gone from Lein? Will it return? 'Coming' and 'going' are illusions, Vahlut. Even at the end of your days, when you pass to Aetherius, have you truly gone? Will you truly return?"

Left rumbled, her crossed arms rising and falling once with her chest.

"Or have you simply been, and simply will be?"

"Tell me, then," she spat, "where you've been."

Vaelastrasz laughed, so boisterous in volume he soon cinched and growled at his wounds. But his amusement remained, clenched in teeth that both grinned and sneered. "Ah," he sighed, "you learn. You are clever, Vahlut."

She said nothing. His laughter returned only as small chuckles.

"You make me curious," he said. "You are with the Dovahkiin, certainly. Don't look surprised," he said when Left tensed, "the Lein Kreniik spoke of him too. You are his... fahdon. His friend?"

"Agent," she said.

"Droliik," he repeated. "You serve him, then, as I serve the Lein Kreniik." He grinned. "We are one the same."

Left's eyes narrowed. Vaelastrasz gave another quiet laugh.

"No," he said, more to himself than to her. "No, I'm wrong."

Left still didn't speak. She didn't know what made him think so—she had, begrudgingly, seen the similarity between them. Yet he took it back.

"You serve him," Vaelastrasz said, and closed his eyes; "and I... _thaarn_ mok. "

His shifting between languages was obnoxious to her. She remained sure he did it for this reason.

He looked at her again. "He is your friend."

"He's my boss," Left said.

"You may lie to a dovah," he said, "but I see through your words, Vahlut. You mortals cherish one another, regardless of how you describe each other. Fahdon or ahmiliik—friend or employer—you would strike me if I spoke against him."

"I've struck you for less."

"True," he laughed. Then he gave a great, rumbling sigh. "Why do you pursue the Lein Kreniik?"

She scoffed. He grinned.

"You think it obvious," he said. "And it is obvious why your Dovahkiin pursues him. But why do you?"

"It's my job," she said flatly.

Vaelastrasz hummed. She watched him, watching her, and she found the curiosity in his gaze bearing a strong resemblance to Wrathion. He gave her a look just like it once, long ago, when he too wanted to unravel her and understand. She didn't move, but deep down, the likeness had her stomach in knots.

"And the Dovahkiin wants to destroy the Lein Kreniik," Vaelastrasz said, finally. "But he did not. Cannot."

"He will," Left said.

To her bewilderment, Vaelastrasz' eyes softened at the iron in her voice. "He might," he said.

"He will."

"Ni naalein," he said.

Left squinted. Vaelastrasz gave a warm, sad smile.

"Not alone."

———Hearth Fire 17th———

"Whuh—what are you doing?"

"Getting down."

"You're driving!"

"I'll guide him, and—you don't _drive_ a horse."

"The point sta—" Wrathion was cut off by his own 'whoa', as his weight shifted wrong on Throne's back and, had Right not grabbed his arm and straightened him out, he would've dropped off.

"The point stands, but you don't."

"Get up here!" he hissed, now clutching the horse's sides for stability.

"I'm giving him a break," Right said. "He can't lug us both around all the time."

"He's a _horse_ ," Wrathion complained.

"Look, if you don't want to ride yourself, just say the word," she said, collecting Throne's rein to lead him. "But you hate walking too."

Wrathion scoffed and, with an air of pride damaged by his own nerves, shifted to square his shoulders. "I don't need off," he said quietly.

"No, that tantrum just now didn't make me think otherwise at all."

"How do I tell the horse to kick you?"

She blew air, amused. Wrathion huffed and stretched out his arm, privately careful not to unbalance himself on Throne. "Give me the map."

Right produced it from her satchel without a word, and Wrathion made a point of snatching it before he straightened in his seat, ever wary as Throne's back twisted underneath him, and rolled the parchment open. Finding the Autumnwatch Tower's precise location had been a bit more troublesome than Wrathion had expected. Apparently it was deserted and had been for some time, so it took some pining to locate its exact whereabouts. Nothing his agents didn't make quick enough work of. The trip still took days, though. The sun would be setting in the next couple of hours.

Right hadn't made any further objection to pursuing the mysterious letter writer's lead, but Wrathion had considered it some since Riften. At least, until a wagon full of bodies cursed with the strongest frost magic he'd ever seen went trundling past the other day. The driver, understandably, hadn't stopped to address any of Wrathion's questions, but the sight of the wagon did answer two: first, there was definitely a dragon in the Rift, and second, it was most likely in the direction opposite of where the wagon was headed.

So the letter writer had been telling the truth about the dragon and its whereabouts, which in all honesty just bewildered Wrathion further. A trick would've been easy enough to understand, and it wouldn't have been the first time someone sought to lure him into a trap, not even based on his claim as Dragonborn. But the writer was sincere about Autumnwatch, and that certainly gave credit to their declaration as Wrathion's 'friend', yet it only served to obscure their agenda from him further. If the writer did not intend to trick Wrathion, then, what _did_ they want? To test his claim? That's what they wrote. But was it true?

"Curious," he mumbled out loud, tapping his chin with a finger. One thing was certain: he was eager to meet this 'friend', whether or not they were as eager to meet him.

His weight was nearly thrown forward as the horse beneath him came to an abrupt stop. Throne shuffled his hooves nervously, tugging against Right's grip on his rein. Wrathion lost the map in his panic, gripping at Throne's sides so he didn't fall.

"What's wrong with you?!" he snapped at the beast.

"He hears something," Right said. She whistled, which as always served to settle Throne some. "Get down."

"Gladly!"

As Wrathion struggled to dismount from a horse that was too agitated to hold still, Right strained her ears for any sign of what had spooked him in the first place. She had one theory, and she was being generous calling it that little. After all, the only thing she could've expected to scare a full-blown warhorse ought to be—

A dragon's roar bellowed across the sky. Throne snorted and yanked his head against Right's grip, harder than before, staggering the agent. She blew a lock of hair out of her face. Theory confirmed.

Wrathion grinned, and looked to where the roar had come from. "So my 'friend' _was_ right. Good."

"Dragonborn!"

His head came down, as a small group of leather-clad Blacktalons approached—the same that had pinpointed Autumntower's whereabouts. Wrathion grinned in something of a sneer, as the leader of the group, whose name Wrathion did not commit to memory, stopped short, nodding curtly. His face seemed a little paler than usual.

What, he wasn't _scared,_ was he?

"Your intel is good," he said. "There's a—"

"Yes, yes, I am not _deaf._ "

The rogue's mouth snapped shut. He nodded again. "It's riled up now. It was just roosting until a few minutes ago."

Wrathion's eyes traced up to the mountains ahead, his expression sobering some at that. Sneaking up on dragons wasn't easy when you basically stank like one yourself. His nose wrinkled.

"Right."

"Draw its attention," Right told the group, as she hitched Throne to a tree. She continued when she faced them fully. "We'll come in from the north. Keep it busy until we engage. Half of you will go ahead and—"

"No," Wrathion piped up, raising a hand. "All of you—except Right, of course." He flashed a momentary and empty grin.

Right's head whipped to him, for half a moment, then back to the group. The latter turn was slower, hesitant, and Wrathion's eyes narrowed a fraction.

"You heard him," she said. "Move out."

The Blacktalons nodded and made themselves scarce. Right watched after them, and when she glanced at Wrathion, he was examining his gloves. He felt her staring and raised his eyes to her.

The silence between them lasted a half-second too long.

"Think it senses you?" Right asked.

Another false grin. "Oh, I hope so," Wrathion said, and marched past her.

Right grimaced out at the wilds and went to follow him. Wrathion retrieved the map half-stolen by the wind and glanced at the marks Right had scrawled on it with the Blacktalons' reports. Evidently, there didn't seem to be any road from the northern side that led to the tower, but the only wilds that stood between the main road and Autumnwatch were thin, orange forests. They wouldn't be difficult to travel through, and it'd be faster than making the round trip to where the road drifted closer to the south side of the outpost.

"See anything?" Right asked.

Wrathion glanced up, gave a noncommittal hum, and returned to navigating the route scribbled on the map.

Right glanced off somewhere, then back to him. "I didn't realize you planned to engage it by yourself."

"I'm not by myself," he said. "I have you!"

She raised an eyebrow at him. When she didn't reply he glanced at her, saw the look and rolled his eyes.

"Neltharion was daunting," he said casually. "Creed, however, was not. _Most_ dragons are not."

"You're betting on that." She didn't sound impressed. "With five of us."

"I'm _Dragonborn_ ," he said, back to his map. "I should be able to do away with one petty dragon _myself._ If not, what's the point?"

"Wrathion."

He stopped. He hated it when she said it like that. "What?"

She didn't say anything, but when he looked, her expression spoke volumes. _What are you doing._

And he hated it almost as much as when she said his name like that. "I'm not _doing_ anything, I'm—"

"You're wounded."

His head reeled back, stunned by the comment. " _Wounded?_ There's not a scratch on me."

"Your pride's wounded," she said, and went on when his mouth opened. "Do you think I'm stupid?"

"When have I—"

"You're furious about Deathwing—Neltharion, whatever."

"Of course I am," he said. "He's powerful—dangerous! The fact I couldn't destroy him in Bleak Falls is—"

"You're pissed," she cut in. "And now you're just being careless."

"Ex _cuse_ me," he snapped, "I didn't realize _Left_ was our make-or-break when it came to dragons! Or have you forgotten it was just you, her and me that were going to hunt Neltharion down once upon a time? You certainly didn't seem so worried about _carelessness_ then!"

"I was an idiot," she said, plainly—it infuriated him, as he wanted to distract her. "We overestimated how strong we were compared to a dragon. I didn't even see the bastard, but _you_ did, and _I'm_ the one telling you this is careless?"

" _This_ is not the same thing," he said. "This is on par with Creed—who, mind you, I defeated!"

"With a dozen Whiterun dogs."

"With _four_ ," he nearly spat the correction.

"But you started with twelve."

"What is your problem with trusting me?"

" _Trust_ is not the issue," she snapped back, _finally_. "You're entire approach to this dragon crisis has changed since Bleak Falls. In some ways good—consulting Fahrad, fine, worked out—this? _This_ is _stupid_. And you're doing it because you're angry about Neltharion."

"What does that even—"

"He _beat_ you," she said. "You, the Dragonborn, got your ass kicked by the very thi—"

"I did _NOT_ get my—"

"Oh, _stop_ ," she rolled her head. "You're a good liar, Wrathion, but not when you're _asleep_."

His eyes went wide, as he bristled and flared in shock and anger. Lines burned falsely on his skin.

"I know," she said when his voice failed. "You _know_ I know. Let me ask again: do you think I'm stupid? Between all the sidetracking—waiting out Wrynn in Riverwood, tailing Whiterun for a _rock_ , and riding the _opposite_ direction from Neltharion—not to mention your armor leaving Bleak Falls and the nightmares you wake up from _screaming_ , it's _obvious_."

"How _dare_ y—"

"You're _afraid_ of him," she said. "And you can't stand it."

He could only stare. His ears rung and rushed with blood, and no matter how hard or fast he breathed, his chest ached. He snapped his mouth shut and swallowed, his throat sticking and hurting, and he straightened himself out of the defensive arch his spine had taken on. Right said nothing else. She _had_ nothing else to say—and neither did he. Nothing that mattered anyway—nothing that would change her mind, nothing that would shut her up. Nothing that would prove her wrong.

So he laughed. Falsely, and quietly.

"Then go."

"Gods," she groaned, and threw a hand to her head, "don't be so childish. You're missing the point."

"If _you_ are so afraid we'll fail, then just—"

The volume of his voice was so loud he hadn't even heard the words of power. It was only the crackling ice that he registered, and it was only Right's practiced speed, as she lunged into him, that spared him an otherwise frigid end. They both struck the ground, Right over Wrathion, and while it was a grassy and leaf-littered landing, it still sent a dizzying whirl through Wrathion's head. He snarled, willing back the pain, and craned his head up to the sky. A great blue dragon circled overhead, its scales as foggy and reflective as the blankets of ice that guarded Skyrim's lakes.

"We'll talk about this later," Right said.

Wrathion, in a huff, let out the breath he didn't know he was holding. "Where in all the planes of Oblivion are—"

A heap of leather and bone-deep hoar frost smashed to the ground yards from them, earning a whip of both their heads. The dragon roared overhead, as Wrathion's cheeks lost a little color at the petrified face staring back at him.

"Oh," was all he managed. Right rolled her eyes and got off him.

The dragon wasted little time. Aware that its attack had been evaded, it arced around and began Shouting more words of power. Wrathion's mind came whirling back into initiative, and he rolled onto his feet after Right. He ducked away from another wave of weaponized ice, which crusted to the forest floor and popped sharply as the heat of the earth, what little there was, thawed it. By the time Wrathion was righted in a crouch, the attack had left a wall of icy spikes in its wake, and he couldn't tell where on the other side of it Right was.

That was, if she wasn't under it. "Right?" he shouted across.

"Coming!" her voice carried back.

Wrathion flinched as the Blacktalon leapt onto the side of a tree and essentially bounced off it, snatching a branch in her hands and swinging up over the barrier to land in a crouch in front of him. She stood, cringing—Wrathion saw frost curling along her shoulder and nearly reached to touch it, with some half-baked intention of assessing the damage. Right, instead, raised her eyes and cinched hard enough to tweak her shoulder painfully, causing Wrathion to pause and follow her attention only a moment too late.

The earth shook as the dragon swooped down, near enough that its claws, even as Wrathion ducked, still struck him rather hard in the skull. He bit out a snarl as he hit the ground, curling in the dirt with the intention to stand, but the blow to the head made his mind swim. Right shifted closer to him, the clatter of a crossbow distinct, and fired a bolt into the dragon's thigh. It snarled, flight faltering, but remained airborne. Wrathion managed a laugh. Right clucked her tongue.

"I was aiming for its throat."

"You missed," Wrathion said helpfully. Right nudged one of his ribs with her heel, earning an exaggerated yelp that was no parts pained and all parts startled.

The dragon arced back around, diving for another chance at snatching one of them in its talons. Right reloaded quickly and fired for the dragon's open maw, which forced it to slam its teeth shut on the bolt instead of Right's head. The wake of its swoop staggered her, and her arm hurt with every move of the crossbow; she dropped to a knee and snarled as she resisted falling any farther. As the dragon gained height, Wrathion scrambled to roll onto his chest and then to a crouch. He clenched his teeth and, through them, spoke. " **Yol**! "

Fire ignited in his throat, and he couldn't help but grin. What luck it was that a dragon with an affinity for ice had reared its ugly head. _Careless_ , she said—ha! He'd see how careless he was once this beast burned beneath his flames. The dragon circled above, waiting for its chance to strike. Wrathion held his breath, somewhat literally, and when the dragon dove for the third time, words of ice in its teeth, he took his shot.

" **Toor**! "

The flames erupted from his mouth, skirting beneath the dragon's frost breath. Wrathion was forced to tear his eyes away when Right threw herself and him flat side-by-side to the ground, and the volley of ice came crashing down over their heads to land just feet behind them. Once the ice was crusting harmlessly to the earth, she leapt to a kneel, retracting her arm from Wrathion's back and allowing him to wobble back up too. He looked up, through a lingering concussion, and turned his attention to the wailing dragon. Fire clung to its wing and chest, devouring scales and eating right down into the flesh. It swooped down and back up, hard, hoping to snuff the flames with the wind, but to little success. Right was on her feet with her good arm offered, and Wrathion's eyes never left the beast as he hauled himself up. Its wing flailed and cinched, the dragon's control of it lost to panic, and with no other choice it plummeted, but not before unleashing a blizzard into where it would crash land.

The bed of newborn ice exploded in shards as the dragon smashed headlong into the heart of it. Wrathion's eyes widened and Right dove in front of him, crossbow in hand, deflecting a fragment otherwise trained for her heart or Wrathion's throat, the weapon provably damaged by the unnatural crack of wood. Smaller splinters sliced or bit into them, mostly Right, but a pair found Wrathion's arm and thigh. The heat of his blood had the shards bursting with steam, but the damage was done and he had two deep gashes for their trouble. He staggered, hissing at the cut in his leg, which failed to bleed as much as a slash should, and stung as if a bitter wind ensnared it. His arm wasn't much better, but, at least he didn't have to stand on that. He glanced up at Right, littered in shards, as she ripped one out of her left arm, limp and heavy at her side.

Wrathion tried to move closer and stumbled on his wounded leg. "You're—"

"All Right," she said, her voice tense with pain, then pointed with her right thumb and finger and winked.

His breath caught and his irritation flared. " _Really?_ "

The broken ice shifted and cracked as the dragon stirred within. Wrathion still saw the smoke rising from its burned wing and he sneered. Ice affinity was such an unlucky break for the dragon, and Wrathion had a certain fondness for his fiery Shouts. The dragon continued to fumble in the mound of frozen shards, growling and hissing at the state of its wing. Wrathion couldn't quite make out the beast's shape in the mess, but whispered ' **Yol** ' and, with a flame barred in his teeth, made his approach, Right in tow.

The dragon whined, pained, and if the encroaching silence indicated anything, it went still in its frigid deathbed. Wrathion couldn't help but grin again. What a sad display of a beast this was. He supposed the bottom rungs of dragonkind had to be _somewhere_ , but this was simply embarrassing. He halted, momentarily, as one wall of the mound exploded when the dragon smashed its good wing through it, hurling shards across the woods. Fortunately, they fanned out away from Wrathion, and so he paid the frustrated event little mind. There was a sound like a hiss, which Wrathion would've ignored, if not for Right.

"Ice," she snapped.

Wrathion fired her a look. "What—"

" _Ice!_ "

" **Iiz** ," was what he'd heard, and by the time he realized, the rest followed: " **Slen Nus**! "

The bed of ice erupted, and what barreled forth was certainly not frost breath. With only a moment to respond, Wrathion barked out a ' **Toor**!' , mangled by shock and Right yanking him backwards, and sent his Shout into the heart of the arctic spell that came hurtling toward him. The flames struck it in a mess of steam, but the dragon's Shout tore through the fire and, though they tried to dodge, it swallowed Wrathion's right shoulder. It was a flurry of ice, submerging him in a temporary blindness that sucked the warmth right out of his blood.

It'd felt like only an instant, but when he came to, the open sky greeted him, as did sharp, stabbing pain. The nerves in his right arm screamed, every last one feeling individually pricked by the points of icicles. He tried to lurch himself away from the pain, but his arm was anchored to the forest floor and didn't budge. All he got for the trouble was a horrible snapping sensation in his shoulder, and his mind erupted with alerts that he'd dislocated it. Whether or not he really had, he was in no state to decide.

Finally, when the deafening noise in his ears ran out of breath—oh, was that him that'd been screaming?—Wrathion craned his head to his right. And there, entombed in the edge of ice that stretched on for yards, was his arm. He remembered the worgen's cursed fog, but this was tenfold the trouble. Any attempt to move the limb was answered with razor sharp pain, a vicious threat that reminded him, with a snarl, that yes, he _could_ perhaps break the ice if he liked, but his arm might very well shatter with it.

And, damn him, he liked his arm.

He had not seen where Right went. He tried to look for her, but his vision was limited, trapped to the ground, and he was quickly distracted from the search regardless. Whatever remained of that heap of ice the dragon laired in shuffled again, tiny shards jingling like glass as the dragon's heavy form rose gingerly from the mess. It scoffed—Wrathion glimpsed the frigid gusts of air that disappeared with the wind—and made its approach to his helpless form.

Helpless. Trapped on the ground, unable to move without breaking his body further. Wrathion snarled. It was Bleak Falls all over again.

"Dovahkiin," the dragon greeted, its amusement gripped in the pain of its seared wing. It laughed stiffly. "Aan miin fah aan miin, hm?"

"I believe it's less eyes for eyes and more wings for wings," Wrathion chided, his own voice ensnared in a pain he stubbornly ignored. He breathed out; a woefully stiff sound. He felt the dragon's ice rooted in his shoulder and even his chest, and feared what consequences that carried. He forced a smile regardless. "But come now, really—I only scorched your wing to make it a fair fight! I can't fly, you know."

"Niid," the dragon agreed. "Viingge fah viingge."

"This, however—" he gestured at his frozen arm, wincing at the effort it took, "—is not so fair. Don't you think?"

The dragon grinned. "Niid," it agreed again.

Wrathion grimaced, then made another smile. "So—"

The dragon spat out a ' **Fo** ', and what brushed over Wrathion's entombed arm was hardly a frosted breeze, but the pain it caused lit stars in his eyes. He bit back a yell and his legs curled involuntarily, clenching his teeth so hard they ached, until the breath ceased and he gasped, shuddering and wincing every time he made the mistake of flinching his right arm.

"Zu'u dreh ni kiird paaz," the dragon answered, at last, with a mocking sneer.

Wrathion wheezed, struggling to keep his eyes open through the lingering pain. "You don't play fair," he repeated with a jaw that insisted on locking shut. He laughed, then winced. "You don't say."

The dragon hummed in turn, ever amused, though Wrathion still saw the way its eyes wrinkled and lips curled at the heat biting into its wing. He sucked in a breath, struggling not to submit to his own pains, even as the dragon's head crudely shaded his arm and blotted what minuscule warmth the sun, blinding him, offered from the frigid damage. Aside from the bladed pain, Wrathion couldn't feel his arm at all. No attempt to flex his fingers or twist his muscles returned any sense that the limb was there. Three years—three whole years in Skyrim—and he'd never feared frostbite as much as he did right now.

But he did _not_ fear dragons.

"Could you—mm," he shut his eyes and mouth, waiting through a spike in the pain. He laughed. It hurt. "Could you move your head some, please? I can't—" he squeezed his eyes tighter shut as the ice seemingly constricted around his arm, "—can't _see_. The sun is in my eyes. Oh, don't give me that huff! You don't play fair, but, give your own kin the respect of looking him face-to-face before you kill him."

The dragon blew a waft of frosted air. "Dreh hi lorot zu'u los hinzaal?"

Wrathion frowned. Right had asked him the same thing.

"No," he answered, and not only the dragon. "I don't." Then he grinned. "But I do think _I'm_ pretty clever."

He then took a breath—though the frost dug into his flesh at the rise of his chest—and with the exhale came just one word.

" **Laas**. "

And behind his eyelids, shut against the sun and the pain, he saw the dragon's soul light up like the very fire he'd breathed onto its wing. It was not stupid, but he was so very clever, and clearly, that had the same effect. Because the ethereal mirage of the dragon that his Shout designed for him tilted its head, squinting severely, and he could only laugh even though it continued to hurt. Then he fixed his head and took aim, and the way he seemed to stare directly at the dragon unnerved it; he knew because the beast lurched away from eyes that were shut and could not truly see it.

He only said one word more, and the beast realized, too late, how clever he was.

" **Krii**. "

Without a wing to give it flight, the dragon could only flinch back, and that wasn't enough to avoid the brunt of the Shout. The sensory chaos the hex unleashed had the dragon reeling, shrieking out huge, icy gusts of air. The earth shuddered beneath its flailing weight, which did no favors to Wrathion's arm. He craned his neck hard toward his shoulder, snapping a ' **Yol** ' over the ice. The heat was _blissful_ , but he did not quite benefit from magic affinities in the way dragons did, and carelessness—he privately cursed the use of the word—would only cost him.

Yet caution was taking too long. One word of power would not hinder the dragon for long, and unfortunately, it seemed three had congealed the ice around his arm for, as far as he could tell, ever. The earth stopped shuddering and the dragon's crying began to silence. Bad signs. And as if that all wasn't enough, his Voice was waning. Krii was a very draining word, and he was feeling the consequences in his throat and lungs.

The dragon snarled, and it was more anger than distress. Wrathion grit his teeth and tried to pull his arm free from the weakened ice, and while cracks pierced the sheets rooted into his chest and shoulder, its grip remained steadfast and painful the closer to his fingers the ice went, and all he really got was his own agonized cry. Furious and rapidly running out of time, he blew more fire over the ice, and his chest ached for it. It didn't matter anyway, because the dragon barked out a bitter ' **Fo** ', and that agonizing frost breath chased his flames and his senses away as pain overthrew him.

But the breath was replaced by a pained snarl, one that drew Wrathion out of his own torment to look upon the beast. And there, wedged into its nose, was a crossbow bolt.

"Hah!" Wrathion blurted out. "Right!"

With a growl, the dragon lifted its head higher, looking somewhere well behind Wrathion where he was in no position to see. It barely began to Shout, when another bolt tore through its throat.

Wrathion could only laugh. "Thu'umnu! Shout through that!"

Snarling and spattering blood, the dragon flapped its wings, even the injured one, with the intention of taking flight. Wrathion sucked in a breath, to the protest of his lungs, and launched a spurt of fire into the dragon's damaged wing, which sent the beast reeling backwards.

"Right!" Wrathion called, trying to tilt his head back to find his agent. "Get me—"

But he spotted the crossbow that had fired the bolts, and it was not wielded by Right, but an elf sporting Whiterun's colors. It was all so jarringly wrong that Wrathion gaped and, temporarily, forgot the dragon.

Whiterun was _here?_

The soldier fired another bolt, which Wrathion barely registered. It was only when it tore into the dragon's collarbone that he came to his senses, as the dragon roared furiously.

"Dragonborn!" the soldier called. "Are you—"

The dragon smashed its foot down, nearly crushing Wrathion, who ignored the pain it caused his arm in favor of curling the freed half of his body away from the beast's talons.

"Focus!" he yelled back to the elf, who made no further attempt to converse.

Another bolt was fired, this one puncturing the dragon's skull. It wailed, evidently pained, and Wrathion recalled driving his dagger into Creed's head. But recreating that would be hard from down here and without his good arm. The bolts might not be strong enough though. He needed to improvise. But how?

The dragon's shadow swallowed him and he let out a pitiful noise, alarmed, as the beast crashed uncomfortably close to him again, cracking the ground it struck. If only it'd hit its head on a—

Wrathion grinned. Oh, he was so _clever!_

" **Gol**! " he Shouted, with all the remaining strength his Voice had to offer.

An earthen spike burst forth, tearing through the dragon's neck. Blood gushed from the gaping wound, and the dragon tried to lurch free, but it only made the injury worse and the dragon wail harder, until its lungs flooded with its own blood and, defiantly, it stilled, trapped to the earth as Wrathion was.

Wrathion sighed and shut his eyes, lying his head back on the ground. He laughed, exhausted and pained, but utterly relieved.

"Wings for wings..."

"Dragonborn!"

He opened his eyes again, spotting the Whiterun soldier. The thought of Whiterun coming to his aid again was infuriating, but then, he might've been dead if they hadn't. The elf looked mortified, though, as he assessed Wrathion's condition. He went to move closer. Wrathion held up his free hand, stopping him.

"Stay back, please," he said, his voice stiff with a pain he pretended couldn't be heard. "I will be with you in a moment."

The soldier, clearly, didn't know what that meant. At least, not until a booming noise erupted from the dragon's corpse, and fire lapped up all but the bones. The dragon's soul came crashing into Wrathion with all the force of Creed's, flushing out every pain that burdened him, until all that was left was a sense he could only ever describe as rebirth. The biting cuts from the flying ice shards were gone, and when he looked to his right, his arm was free, and his fingers readily responded to his command. There was knowledge whirling through his mind, thoughts he couldn't articulate even to himself, as he had found to be true with Creed as well. Like memories he knew he had, but couldn't quite reach.

But they, like Fus, would come.

"Ah," he sighed, relaxing. Then he sat up, and it was blissfully effortless. "Much better!"

The elf stared, as Wrathion leapt to his feet with the same ease. Fortunately, the soldier must have heard the stories about Bleak Falls, because the sight, though hard to absorb in the flesh, seemed to ring familiar to him.

"Then it's true," he said, more to himself than Wrathion.

"Believe, believe," he said in turn, then glanced around. "Now, have you seen my—"

He stopped. The grin dropped off his face. There, near where the tree and first wall of spiked ice stood even now, was a draenei woman, crouched. Before her, lying face up, was his Blacktalon.

There was only one word going through his mind, as his ears failed to hear the wood elf's call and he went, in a stumble that rapidly turned to a sprint, to a body that should've been shoving the draenei off, that should've been fighting, regardless of her injuries, to find Wrathion, because that's what Right did. That's what they _both_ did, she and Left, and she wasn't—why wasn't she _moving?_

A hand caught his arm and he lurched so hard that, though he got free, the force spun him back around, and he saw the wood elf, who raised his hands and started to say, "Don't—"

"What _happened_ to her?!" Wrathion screamed.

The soldier snapped his mouth closed. Wrathion already knew he had no clue, but it only made him angrier. His mind was whirling, and no longer was it with lost memories, but something far more dizzying. The Rift felt far away; the cold couldn't reach him, and he didn't know if it was lingering adrenaline or some kind of disconnect in the midst of panic. The elf was talking again. Wrathion couldn't hear the words, until he could, but they were not the soldier's.

"She's alive."

Wrathion whipped toward the draenei, whose face was a mess of reassurance and apology, and Wrathion was in no state to make any sense of it. "What?"

"She's alive," the draenei repeated, and went back to tending Right. Healing her, Wrathion realized—the soldier was a medic of some kind. "She'll be all right."

Wrathion stared, until a breeze caught him shuddering, and he deflated. At a loss for words, he simply collapsed by Right's side, opposite from the draenei, and took in the state of his agent. Frost crusted to her torso and part of her left arm, the result of the same Shout that had anchored Wrathion to the ground, but it was a more centered hit than what he'd endured. Frost crept into the gashes she'd suffered from the ice fragments. She was ashen, shivering, and thoroughly unresponsive besides.

That one word crept back into his mind.

 _Careless_.

He lost the tension in his shoulders, forced to stand on his hands to keep from simply collapsing. How could he have been so _stupid?_ The answers spun around in his head, unattainable in their dance; he just felt dizzy trying to make any sense of it. The sun was setting, but the Rift was so bright, searing his eyes, and Wrathion let his head drop to try and flush it out. Voices were talking again, to him or each other or maybe no one at all.

Oh, he was careless.

Right sucked in a breath, and Wrathion's head shot up, for a second thinking he'd heard her laugh, but it was only a flinch from the cold biting into her wounds. But it knocked some sense into him, and he sat up straighter, bracing his face. Because she _would_ laugh, if she could see him right now. The draenei's reassurance reached him through his spinning mind— _"She'll be all Right"_ —but he heard it in Right's teasing, chiding voice instead, with a point of finger and thumb and a wink.

He cleared his throat, and he felt the scars of his outburst weighing on his face still, but he thought if he ignored them hard enough, others might too. He tilted his head toward the wood elf, though his eyes never left Right, and managed one empty laugh.

" _Please_ don't tell me you're here to arrest me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [dragon translations](http://textuploader.com/ai94g).
> 
> "please don't tell me you're here to arrest me." —ancient proverb of wrathion, otherwise known as The Dragonborn Who Can Never Catch A Break From Whiterun Authorities


	22. Zu'u Fun Hei

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **content warnings:** death  & hallucinations maybe

Chapter 22: Zu'u Fun Hei  
"I Tell You"

———Hearth Fire 17th———

"Yes. We're in Ivarstead now. ... One of his agents is injured. Mishka is taking care of her. ... No, not yet, we've been a little preoccupied. ... The agent is in bad shape, but Mishka believes she can—"

Wrathion tuned him out. Rell, he recalled, who was apparently reporting to Whiterun through more of those dwemer devices Katrana designed. And it wasn't hard to ignore him, anyway—the wood elf was in the other room, and the walls made hearing him a bit of a struggle. All Wrathion had to do was stop listening to lose the soldier's voice to a muffled noise he couldn't comprehend if he didn't want to. And he didn't.

Mishka paid him no mind. She sat at Right's bedside, thawing the ice that clung to her still. Dragon breath was never like natural elements or even mortal magic. It was destructive by nature, born of creatures whose instinct was to rise above everything. To dominate the world. Much like Neltharion's fire was catastrophic to all Wrathion had seen it touch, it was no surprise to him that the blue dragon's ice was just the same.

No surprise at all. The complete inability to be shocked or confused just left him numb. He knew everything there was to know about it. There was nothing to busy his mind with, nothing to waste his time picking apart.

There was just waiting.

Waiting for something to change, and so far it hadn't. Not much, anyway. Right remained ashen, shaking and unresponsive. Mishka remained absorbed in her work. And Wrathion remained numb.

His arm didn't hurt at all. It felt fine, yet every muscle in him was tense to the point that he ached anyway. He kept flexing his fingers, almost wishing the arm were injured just so he'd have something to blame it on.

He kept wondering, if Right had been closer when he absorbed the dragon's soul... would it have rejuvenated her too? He didn't know the answer to that. He'd never heard anything of it, but if he could've—

He huffed and pushed the thought away. Whether or not that could've worked didn't help him now. It didn't help _her_ now.

What was he doing?

He sighed, and lifted his chin out of his hand only to bury his eyes there instead. It was dark now—most of the town was asleep. The innkeeper had been dozing off when they arrived. The tense ache in his arm was exhausting him, but his mind was so disorganized now he knew trying to sleep would be pointless. So there he sat, curled with his legs to his chest in a chair, waiting for something to change.

She was right. He almost laughed—of course she was right. Before Helgen, he'd been perfectly aware what a detriment dragons would be to Skyrim. How dangerous they were. It was why so much of the past three years was put into bolstering his Blacktalons, something he would never have wasted the time and energy on if having a network of strong agents wasn't critical to Skyrim's survival. It was time he could've put into studying their language, their power, their history, how to defeat them, why they didn't stay dead even when they _were_ defeated...

But he'd known better than to underestimate what numbers meant. What an army meant.

What was he _doing?_

He lifted his head out of his hand, staring at Right. If Mishka knew any magic, she hadn't used it. All the treatment she'd given his agent was through means of medicine he was marginally more familiar with, if only because it was the sort of treatment most of the people he knew utilized. Those with a talent for Restoration magic were not generally people he got along with. They thought him questionable, so he thought them useless.

Yet he found himself almost wishing Bolvar Fordragon or Prophet Velen were here. Surely their magic could make quick work of this dragon's? He scowled to himself. More things that didn't help him now.

"How—"

He snapped his mouth closed, but Mishka still glanced at him. She hadn't said a word after he'd nearly chewed Rell's head off earlier. The wood elf had refused to take any lesser hint and leave him alone. He knew it wasn't because Mishka was afraid of him, she'd just been brighter than her comrade, and left Wrathion to himself like he wanted. Nevertheless, he was caught wanting to speak, and decided there was no point trying to pretend they both hadn't heard it.

"How is she?"

Mishka smiled and returned to her work. "Improving," she said, and she sounded sincere. "I believe her armor took the worst of the damage, and getting her out of that has helped."

Wrathion nodded absently, shifting in his chair. He sat in the corner of the room opposite from the bed; his own pitiful attempt to be alone but keep an eye on his Blacktalon. He'd long since given up chiding himself for the stupid conflict of objectives.

"When will she..."

"It's hard to say exactly," Mishka answered when Wrathion failed to articulate the rest of the question. "She could be awake within the next day, but I'll have to monitor her recovery a little longer before I can tell you when she's safe to travel again."

"Especially up seven-thousand stair steps," Wrathion scoffed, glancing away.

Whiterun had been surprised to find him at Autumntower. It was only luck they had passed by when they did, because they had unsurprisingly expected to find him on the Throat of the World. There was no avoiding the question forever—eventually, Rell had wanted to know why Wrathion wasn't at High Hrothgar. The conversation had been very annoying and was in large part why Wrathion had no patience for the elf by now, but it had ultimately turned out in Whiterun's favor, he supposed, because he had changed his mind about answering the Kirin Tor's summons.

Because she was right, and he was careless, and he was seething at the ceiling at it all.

At least, perhaps, he could learn a thing or two before they started trying to turn him into some kind of pacifist like Anduin Wrynn or Fahrad; the sort that would sooner _negotiate_ with dragons than dispose of them.

Because, despite how utterly annoying the entire concept of the Kirin Tor was to Wrathion, they were renowned for their knowledge of the dragon language. As young, aspiring Tongues they would ascend the Throat of the World, where they would spend decades studying and mastering the Voice, only to never call upon it for 'the least of its uses'—that was, to destroy those that would seek to do the same to their world. It was ludicrous. But they, historically, were willing to train Dragonborn, and if Wrathion could tap into even a _little_ of their knowledge, he'd consider the round trip up and down the Seven Thousand Steps to at least break even.

It had always been worthwhile, if he hadn't gotten so absorbed in chasing the dragons out of Skyrim. That was the _point,_ certainly, had he not lost it to convoluted games of pretend. They'd come too soon. He needed more time, and he was all out of it. There was nothing he could do except find a balance between tempering his Voice and weeding out dragons. Deluding himself into thinking those like Creed and the blue had been flukes was only costing him.

After all, he'd nearly lost Right in his—he squeezed his eyes shut and groaned— _carelessness._

Perhaps, then, it was lucky that Whiterun had caught up to him just south of Ivarstead. The town _did_ sit at the foot of the Throat of the World. That was perhaps one of the few things that played out in his favor today. He glanced at Right again, privately thankful that Mishka had silently returned to caring for her, and not taking some ill-thought opportunity to prod him further. Whiterun had this habit of meddling and putting their noses in business that wasn't theirs.

Though he'd been pointedly informed it _was_ their business. Rell had some interesting questions for Wrathion on the way to Ivarstead that told him, if nothing else, his Blacktalons had failed their mission in Dragonsreach. They'd been discovered. Tuh! Wrathion would have them all fired soon enough, once he got more details out of Whiterun. He was starting to think he wasn't going to be rid of the hold any time soon. They were like a weed, and no matter how many times he plucked them out of the ground, they always rooted their way back in.

Maybe it was a self-fulfilling prophecy. They refused to forget about him, and, it wasn't like he'd forgotten about them. Their names kept floating around, on the edges of his mind, applying themselves to situations as they saw fit. Why, just now, Anduin Wrynn had come up when he needed examples of peace-seeking, highly misinformed mortal men that thought dragons could be reasoned with.

And he just came up again. Wrathion scowled, then quickly hid it with an empty grin.

"You haven't mentioned your prince," he said. "I half-expected a shower of his gratitude to follow your arrival."

Mishka glanced at him, surprised either by him speaking or what he said, but offered a sad smile that just confused him. "I'm sure he would have sent thanks," she said.

"'Would have'?" Wrathion blurted before he could think not to. "He's—"

"Oh, no," she hurried to say. "He was comatose, last I heard. He'd just had extensive surgery."

"Oh," Wrathion said. He slumped back in his chair. "Of course. For the leg."

"Yes," she nodded. "For the leg."

Wrathion squinted and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Yes, well—" he struggled to dismiss the topic quickly, then just sighed, annoyed. "When you return, perhaps, give him my regards."

Misinformed pacifist that he was, he _had_ saved Wrathion's life. He sniffed.

He caught Mishka give a big smile. It just embarrassed him, actually. He only relaxed when her eyes left him, back to her task at hand instead. After his last conversation with Anduin Wrynn, he'd nearly forgotten about the state of the prince's leg. Certainly, he'd watched Whiterun soldiers carry him into the Temple of Kynareth, but that memory was fuzzier in his head. It was a fleeting moment with no particular value, but so many things originated from their conversation in Riverwood that, perhaps, the memory was another persistent weed he couldn't quite uproot.

He almost asked about the surgery, then decided against it. Just more distractions he'd have to clean out later. Whiterun might not be behind him, but Wrynn was.

The door opened, and Wrathion, embarrassingly, flinched out of his thoughts before realizing it was Rell returning from his conversation with, Wrathion assumed, Katrana Prestor.

"Whiterun expects us to be late," he told Mishka, as he set his satchel down by the door. "I told them we'd have a better estimate for our return in a day or two. Is that accurate?"

"Should be," Mishka said.

Rell nodded, and shifted closer to the foot of the bed. He glanced down at Right. "How is she?"

Wrathion suspected the wood elf either didn't know he was in the corner or had little mind to pay him. And Wrathion, for a moment, considered being irked about that, but their conversation reminded him that they, like Bolvar Fordragon, had curious little devices to talk to Katrana Prestor with. Wrathion spared a glance at the elf's satchel, still perched on the wall next to the door.

He squinted at it, then side-eyed the Whiterun soldiers. They were still talking, but he didn't care to hear what about, as his eyes fixed on the satchel again. He took a breath in and uncurled his legs from their places against his chest, setting his feet on the floor and, carefully, standing. He had the soldiers' exhaustion and distraction as advantages, and slipping the satchel away from the door and underneath his discarded cloak was pleasingly effortless.

Make that _two_ things that'd gone right for him today.

"Dragonborn," Rell said, sending a shock through Wrathion. By the time the wood elf was turned towards him, Wrathion was back in his chair, coiled up just as he'd been before.

Wrathion smiled, ever cautious of every muscle in his face, so that not one would betray the startled beat of his heart. "Guardsman."

"About earlier, when I asked you about your Blacktalons—"

"Yes, about that," Wrathion interrupted, kicking his feet off the chair. He stood, as if he hadn't been before, and despite the way he raised his voice, his face only gave an air of nonchalance. "I can assure you I'll have the lot of them fired within the week. I didn't mean to trouble..."

He stopped himself, squinting at the way Rell's face contorted, almost as if a thorn were wedging deeper into his side with every word Wrathion spoke. He had no idea what to make of that.

"There's no need for that," Rell said carefully. He shifted, straightening his back. "The Blacktalons were found dead about a week ago."

The word rung in his mind. " _Dead?_ "

"I'm sorry," Rell said.

"No, no, I don't—" Wrathion started, then stopped, too busy digesting the information to finish the thought. It'd probably be inappropriate to say he didn't want the condolences anyway. "Who—?"

Rell sighed, though his posture didn't falter. "We were hoping you'd know."

He blinked, slowly, then looked away to consider it. Obviously Whiterun had nothing to do with it, or they wouldn't have bothered to send soldiers all the way to the Rift to question him about it. Was Katrana Prestor capable of such action? Even when he genuinely tried to write her off as just a court wizard who rubbed him the wrong way, he couldn't chase off the feeling that she was.

"We were also hoping you could explain what they were doing in Dragonsreach," Rell said, tilting his chin down some and raising an eyebrow.

Wrathion looked at him and just frowned. If Katrana was responsible—and Wrathion could not explain the deaths of his Blacktalons otherwise—Whiterun wouldn't want to hear it, much less believe it. And while he didn't _want_ to explain that he'd intended to spy on their court wizard, there was little else he could say that would explain the secrecy. And it wasn't like Whiterun didn't already think he was a headache—a mutual feeling, he'd quickly remind them.

So, exaggerating his frown further, he joined his fingertips and shrugged. "The court wizard wasn't interested in sharing, so I took matters into my own hands. I meant no inconvenience—there was nothing in their orders that suggested dropping dead on your doorstep like rodents."

Rell blinked at him. The wood elf opened his mouth, possibly to inquire if the Dragonborn was _joking,_ then decided against it. "You were spying on the court wizard?"

"If I were hiding my true intentions, I would've chosen a better lie," Wrathion assured. "Whiterun claimed an artifact in Bleak Falls that piqued my interest, but being in your custody, there was nothing I could do except spy or simply steal it." He smiled falsely. "I believe I chose the lesser of two evils."

Rell sighed and rubbed his face in a hand. "I suppose."

Wrathion's smile only broadened. Rell seemed satisfied—so to speak—and didn't question him further, instead mulling over something for a long enough silence that Wrathion began to worry his wandering eyes might notice his satchel wasn't by the door. The Dragonborn's fingers itched for the metal gadget he'd yet to retrieve from the elf's belongings.

"If you'd like," Rell began, looking back at Wrathion, "Mishka and I can stay with your agent while you meet with the Kirin Tor."

"No, no!" he said, fixing his smile before Rell could see it faltering. "There's no need. I'll wait here until my agent is ready to depart with me."

Rell looked unsure. "Dragonborn—"

"Believe me," Wrathion said, raising a hand, "it is for your benefit more than mine. You would not like to be caught alone with one of my Blacktalons, _without_ me, and with the knowledge that your hold has a history of taking me captive."

The soldier paused, then gave a hesitant nod. "Very well."

Wrathion only continued to smile. Once Rell turned to converse with Mishka further, Wrathion knelt down and flipped open the top of the satchel. Rifling through belongings that were not his own was one of the few skills he'd been tempering long before his arrival in Skyrim, and locating the bulbous device took only seconds. Once found, Wrathion was quick to pocket it, slip the satchel back into its place by the door and return to his seat, where he coiled his legs against his chest once more. He smirked, satisfied.

Make it _three_ things.

———Hearth Fire 18th———

The cavern had a serenely blue glow to it.

Anduin thought it peculiar, though very pretty. He sat against the wall, just observing the mushrooms as their light pulsated in slow beats. Glowing plant life wasn't quite unheard of to him, but seeing it, in its beauty, light the halls of treacherous, cryptic Bleak Falls was unnerving at best. What was equally unnerving was the way his leg failed to hurt any worse than a lingering ache due more to tension than injury, as though the muscles were simply strained and not corroded by flame.

And he was in his sleepwear, he realized suddenly. _That_ was weird.

This had to be a dream.

Anduin pinched the inside of his elbow, just in case. This was definitely a dream, and yet a certain uneasiness suffocated him even still. He didn't mind if his subconscious decided to show him one of the least-frightening corners of Bleak Falls for a night, so long as that was all it showed him. He didn't need dragons or draugr or dead guardsmen or... _humming?_

He squinted, listening to the sound. It was certainly someone humming, but, he didn't recognize the voice. He did recognize the song though, but couldn't name it. Glancing around, he could tell it was coming from around the corner—distantly, though, as it was ensnared in an echo. He pushed his hands into the floor and, cautiously, made his way to stand—

Only to become very aware that he did not have a right leg to stand with.

He stumbled and nearly fell, if not for the wall behind him, allowing him to sink gently back into a sit. Right, he knew it was gone in theory, but applying that theory to practice was a little trickier. He made a face, shifting his knee back and forth, then glanced around for something to balance with.

He found it right away. A quarterstaff, sculpted wood and encased in gold, with a sharpened base on one end and a spheric disk mounted on the other. It was positively misplaced in the dreary cavern, almost iridescent, its sheen independent from the mushrooms lining the walls. Anduin leaned to retrieve it, and half-expected something whimsically brilliant to happen. But it was just a very nice if suspiciously clean staff in the depths of Bleak Falls.

Definitely a dream.

Anduin jammed the base of it into the jagged floor and hauled himself up. It did well to support his weight, though he had to grip it with both hands to stay righted, and even then his arms shook with the strain and mild fear of falling. He became aware of the humming again, and followed the white-blue light of the fungi, beckoning him in that whimsical way he'd anticipated before.

The cavern twisted and turned, delving deep into the earth. A stream winding through the rocks dropped off a cliff, spiraling into a dark abyss that, even with the moonlight that poured in from a skylight above, could not be peered through. Anduin crossed a precarious passage of earth that he was certain would have crumbled if he were not dreaming.

The quarterstaff carried him more than he carried it, and it did not strike him to dwell on that thought. Between each tap of its foot on the ground, Anduin heard the familiar song hummed through Bleak Falls' ruined halls. The longer he listened, the closer he was to naming the melody. He could hum along after hearing its rhythm a few times. Words danced on the edge of his mind as he drew closer to the source.

He came to a hallway, fogged with the residue of walls that had all but collapsed over the centuries. He remembered this—a forgotten cut in his arm, scabbed and scarred over, pulsed with a false pain. But the hum was close now; Anduin heard it, unaided by the echoes, and with the clarity came revelation. The walls were decorated, with prophecies or memorials, he didn't know. He could see the murals clearly though, illuminated by braziers that warned Anduin he was not the first one here—but then, the humming had told him that much.

A woman in a mask of snow or shadows, he wasn't sure, flocked by flighted creatures too angular to be birds. A man, shrouded in flowers shaped like runes, bursting with a youth that reflected in his eyes. A boy in robes, wearing a crown of light that bathed the wings folded around him in its radiance.

Anduin stopped to stare at the last mural. A teenager, surrounded in fire that sculpted horns on his head and claws on his hands, with eyes like suns that pierced through darkness and armor forged from dragon hide or, less likely, a _lot_ of lizards. A great fissure rended his chest; cracks branched across him like rivers through the earth. The humming found him again, and Anduin knew the words now.

_I tell you, I tell you, the Dragonborn comes._

He turned to face a grand door, carved upon to make a dragon's head on the surface. Its eyes were hollow, lacking light and color, but Anduin's imagination filled the gap, and he knew these eyes should've been red like hellfire. With one hand on the door for stability, he raised the quarterstaff and drove its pointed base into the dragon's skull, wedging it deep with both hands until the edges cracked apart. The door banged and groaned, then rolled open as if a chain holding it together had been broken.

A hallway laid beyond, worn and wild, leading deep into a place rampant with a humid breeze. Anduin leaned heavily on the staff, unnerved just to breathe it. The Song of the Dragonborn was louder now, carried with the ugly air, and bracing himself, Anduin pressed on. The cavern opened up to moonlight and a great wall, and Anduin felt his chest tighten as memories of this place poured in. He clutched the quarterstaff tighter.

A booming voice too fearsome to be mortal exploded through the cavern. Just the sound of it made Anduin's eyes light up in sparks, as if he'd been struck by its force, but it was only the deafening wrath that hurt him. He looked up, where he could see glimpses of a battle on the platform stretched out before the Word Wall.

He didn't think, he just hurried up the stairs.

A duel opened up to him. There was a figure, dressed in leathers that Anduin could feel the enchantments radiating from, their face concealed by a carved mask with haunting violet eyes. The assailant struck with dark, twisting magic at their opponent, who with another Shout, shattered the spell before it could touch him. He lunged through the sparks and dust of the spell, and with one hand grabbed the assailant's mask, but they drove a boot into his chest and pushed him off before he could remove it.

Anduin caught his gaze, for a single moment; a human face with dragon eyes.

Then a Voice bellowed out—not Wrathion's—and by the time they both looked, a storm of great light smashed into the Dragonborn. Anduin watched and heard his body crack, with gut-rending clarity, and before the prince could open his mouth, Wrathion fell. The red fire of his eyes flared violently, brilliantly, desperately, then evaporated into embers and ash. The humming couldn't be heard anymore.

Anduin swore reality itself fractured at the sight. The figure gave a wicked laugh, one that shook Anduin to his core, and every part of him that begged him to run was drowned out by at least two more parts telling him to face the assailant. Shadows curled around them, sometimes resembling wings or horns, the violet light that broke through the mask's eyes a glare that scared Anduin. The figure breathed, and he sensed reality reel in fear, as if cowering behind him.

They spoke in those inhuman words, incomprehensible to him, and Anduin watched the same light from before tear through him. It was a harsh wind, swiping and clawing at him, but it was as if he were made of impenetrable steel. The spell's talons couldn't get a grip on him. Anduin reached through it, and while the force tried to deny him, he managed to grab hold of the figure's mask. He felt it fracture under only his touch, and a light matching its glare bled through between Anduin's fingers.

The figure reeled back and the mask came free. Anduin stumbled, holding the mask to his chest with his one arm, the other wrapped tight around the quarterstaff. He focused on the figure again, as they stilled, and through the hands clasped to their face, Anduin saw the fiery gold glare from his nightmares, impossibly familiar. Their gaze fell to the mask, hungry for it, and confused, Anduin looked too.

But what he held in his arm was a stone tablet engraved with stars and a dragon's head.

The last thing Anduin knew was a tendril of darkness gouging him through his chest. Bleak Falls was swallowed by the moonlight that spilled in from Anduin's bedroom window, as the prince shot upright in bed, his adrenaline doing well to numb the pain in his leg to no more than a dull burn. It was still enough to remind him that he couldn't leap to his feet and hurry to Bolvar's room though. Anduin breathed, unaware until then that he'd been holding it.

The clarity of wakefulness poured in, and it brought a single thought forth from the confusion of his dreams.

"The dragonstone."

———Hearth Fire 18th———

Jaina's eyes rolled open, and she was immediately annoyed with how instantaneous the retreat of sleep was. She didn't feel tired at all. The opposite, actually—she felt restless.

It'd been mounting since... well, since Rhonin was first called to the summit. But after the second attempt to summon the Dragonborn, Jaina's anxiety had only spiked with every passing day. Which, in truth, hadn't even quite been a full week, but the longer High Hrothgar stagnated in its state of waiting for the Dragonborn to arrive, the worse she felt.

But she shouldn't have worried about it, she knew. It was just as Rhonin said—the only one wasting their time was the Dragonborn. If they didn't want to address the Kirin Tor's offer, what harm was it to Jaina, or any Tongue on the mountain for that matter?

Besides, of course, the dragons looming about in the sky. She huffed and sat up, an equally effortless action, as there was no exhaustion weighing her down. Her room was dark without its usual candles to light it. Only the outside reflection of the moonlight in the snow cast any shape to the room.

Surely the Dragonborn was just busy, she reasoned. With dragons bent on ravaging the land popping up all over the country, that made perfect sense, didn't it? Dragonborn were not Tongues of the Kirin Tor. They were not confined to the Way of the Voice, and even the slightest of whims were in and of themselves True Needs when the blessings of Akatosh Himself coursed through your veins. It was to be expected that, with that kind of privilege, the Dragonborn would preoccupy themself with the dangers terrorizing Skyrim below. Who had time to climb the Seven Thousand Steps to answer the summons of a group of reclusive wizards?

No matter how many ways she phrased it in her head, though, she had a feeling that wasn't why they hadn't shown up.

It was not uncommon knowledge that the Voice was not just a power mastered by Tongues, such as the Kirin Tor, but also one learned from dragons and inherited by Dragonborn. The former had been extinct and on the brink of myth for ages, yet the latter, as they appeared throughout history in times of True Need, had always sought the Kirin Tor's guidance, ever since its founding. The Dragonborn's innate ability to sponge up the power of the Voice was only as worthwhile as the amount of knowledge available to absorb—and naturally, when True Needs beckoned, they would seek all the power they could find.

To willfully deny the Kirin Tor's summons was arrogant at best, and catastrophic at worst.

Akatosh would not bestow such power to one so careless, would He? Jaina didn't believe so, even as the reality of it threatened to plunge Skyrim into hellfire. The legends of the Dragonborn were many, and all of them mighty. To realize that power was theirs—if they had not already known—well, it wasn't like Jaina hadn't witnessed arrogance before.

It was a plight worse than simple ignorance. What could be done about one who, rather than oblivious to their power and the forge that could temper it, instead actively turned their back on it with a subpar weapon in hand? Or in mouth, perhaps, or—Jaina didn't have enough sleep for analogies at the moment.

Could this modern Dragonborn be reasoned with? Would it take more than the Voice of dragons to earn their attention? Rhonin had said it—the Kirin Tor had no responsibility, according to the Way. The Dragonborn had received their summons. It was up to them, now, to show.

And Jaina scowled at the wall, because damn it all, that was _ridiculous._

The Dragonborn's mere existence announced disaster. A threat lurked in a future close enough that this one soul's lifespan would last to witness it, so gargantuan that Akatosh, God of Time, Father of Dragons poured His very blood into the veins of a mortal child, conceiving what would become His testimony of the True Need that was to come, so that that child might stand to abolish the threat.

But that child was still mortal, and would still grow up to be mortal, and to put the weight of the world on their shoulders because of circumstances predating their very conception—they would _shatter_ under such pressure.

So didn't it make sense to _send_ someone to help them? To shoulder destiny and accountability and the expectations of those _'not responsible',_ as Rhonin had said? To reach out, when they might be too unaware, too misinformed and even too proud? To be one of perhaps only a few voices to say it was _their_ destiny, but it was _Mundus'_ fate, and for anyone, even the Kirin Tor, to shirk their part in that fate might well be a worse form of pride? Did arrogance imposed on a child with the power to shape the world hold a candle to that which was willfully swallowed by the Tongues of the Kirin Tor from no one's cup but their own?

Even Rhonin failed to put forth an argument about that. _"Maybe."_ That was all he'd had to offer.

But Jaina's breath caught at the thought. To leave High Hrothgar would be, perhaps, to abandon her Way. Coming to study with the Kirin Tor was a simple enough endeavor, if you didn't mind the hike of your life, but _joining_ the Kirin Tor was another story. Their lifestyle was a demanding one, but not one too challenging for Jaina to find a harmony with.

At least, until Skyrim suffered at the flames of assailants she, as a Tongue, was more equipped to fight than all but one.

Jaina gave another, harder sigh and rubbed her face in her hands. It seemed no matter what she did, she always came back to this single issue. The tablets leading up to High Hrothgar made it quite clear how powerful the Voice was— _"for it could blot out the sky and flood the land"_ —and how it could and had been used to thwart the tyranny of dragonkind once. Yet the very same tablets advocated that such power was too easy to misuse, too dangerous as much else than a gift from the gods to be returned to them in worship and otherwise reserved for True Needs. And so it was decided that the Voice was an instrument to attain enlightenment, not power; one to bring glory to gods, not mortal men; and one to be the final safeguard between salvation and the end of days.

And Jaina had seen the struggle of those that rejected this. She'd seen all those that had climbed the Steps and entered High Hrothgar. She'd seen those who sought to strengthen their Voice, who were the same as those that eventually left the Throat of the World, unable to surrender themselves to the Way as Jaina had. It was easy for her, to abandon violence and war as tools to be used as solutions. Those were not things she had ever felt much fondness for, and when the Way of the Voice asked her to lay them down and forget them, she had wondered, as she did, what she ever would've needed them for anyway.

It was only years later, on the day Deathwing's return whispered its way to High Hrothgar, that Jaina received an answer. Only as Helgen laid in ruins did Jaina understand why all who had come and gone from the Throat of the World struggled to lay down their weapons. But it seemed only to raise more questions.

What did she do now? Warfare had been so easy to abandon when she'd had no use for it, but now eras collided, and nightmares from fairytales sought to burn Skyrim to ash. And here she was, on top of the world, with not only the power to play dragons at their own game, but the knowledge that somewhere in Skyrim a Dragonborn drifted, destined to cast the evil from this world.

But if they never came, never _knew_ all they could gain in coming, what was she to do? Wait? Hope? Pray? Did Skyrim have time for High Hrothgar's whispers to find the Dragonborn?

Her mind went silent. She didn't want to wait and see.

She tossed the blanket off her and collected her robes from the dresser. All of them, every layer. Her boots and cloak too—even the hood, which she drew over her hair and tucked her bangs beneath. She grabbed a satchel and stuffed it with everything she could think to. Some personal belongings that had accompanied her on her long journey to the Throat of the World, all those years ago, and books she'd since read and drank the teachings of the Voice from. Things she would need, or otherwise didn't have the heart to part with.

When there was nothing left for her in the room, she swept out and made her way through the sleeping halls. The wind urged her to startle at its shrill howl, if only to distract her from her actions, but she refused to hear it. The hallways felt longer than usual, begging her to reconsider the trials ahead of her, but she would not see it. The braziers in the front chamber greeted her, dim as the monastery slumbered. Their warmth brushed her as she passed, gripping her and trying to pull her back, but she didn't submit to it.

She reached the doors that opened up to the Seven Thousand Steps and set her hand upon the frozen steel.

"Jaina."

She spun, as alarm claimed her, and saw Rhonin standing at the top of the stairs. He didn't look surprised, though he held his arm out as though he could reach her from his place across the room. Snowfall showered him—he'd been outside.

"Rhonin—"

"A dragon has died in the Rift," he said, "but his soul is in Ivarstead."

Jaina's eyes widened. "You mean?"

It was only when he lowered his arm that Jaina realized Rhonin was grinning.

"The Dragonborn's come."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no dragon languages were butchered in the making of this chapter.
> 
> there is not a lot to say about this chapter, except everything. absolutely everything. but we'll get to that, won't we?
> 
> *wiggles fingers*


	23. Ofaal Pruzah Das

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **content warnings:** burns  & self-harm (of the, er, 'i-need-my-blood-to-do-a-thing' variety)

Chapter 23: Ofaal Pruzah Das  
"Get Well Soon"

———Hearth Fire 18th———

"The Imperial Legion?"

Bolvar gave a nod. He stepped closer to the throne and held out his arm, offering a letter. Varian threw up his hand, resigned to an exasperation that pulled his face into a tired grimace.

"I don't need to read it," he said. "It says the same thing every other message has, I would bet."

"You'd be right," Bolvar said, moving back.

Varian sighed. "How many times do I have to send Solitude's couriers back to them before they take the hint? I'll not be involved."

"You know they won't stop," Bolvar said. "Whiterun is a key asset to both sides of the war, and Queen Menethil knows it."

"And yet her brother hasn't sicced an errand-runner on me in ages."

Bolvar held his tongue. He wasn't sure that was a good thing. Varian rubbed his face.

"Send the girl back," he grumbled. "Whiterun declines."

Bolvar didn't miss the unspoken, aggravated _'again'_ that hung on the end of that sentence. He nodded, and turned to follow his instructions, but stopped at the foot of the small flight of steps leading up to the throne. He glanced over the hall, deserted this early in the morning, and considered something.

Varian looked up and saw the highlord's hesitation. "What is it, Bolvar?"

Bolvar set his jaw, and turned to his king. "How much longer will you wait for him?"

Varian's eyes hardened and, to Bolvar's admitted surprise, the king looked away. "I stopped waiting long ago."

"My king—"

"Don't."

Bolvar shut his mouth, and gave a curt sigh. Double-checking the emptiness of the throne room, he went on. "You know as well as I that Arthas must be dealt with."

"Of course I do," Varian snapped, still staring off somewhere else. "I'm not foolish enough to think otherwise. But his war is with Solitude and the Empire, not Whiterun. Let them deal with their renegade crusader and prince. I have nothing to offer Calia."

"Haven't you?" Bolvar said, growing aggravated. "Calia and the Legion would not persist if they thought so, and—"

"Let me be clear," Varian cut in, raising his voice; "I have nothing I _will_ offer Calia. No number of negotiations will gain her entry to my city, to garrison Fordring's tainted Legion in my hold. Whiterun will not be dragged into such chaos."

"Are we in any position to refuse?" Bolvar demanded. "We're spread thin as it is in light of this dragon crisis."

"A fractured Legion won't help with that."

"Calia wants Whiterun's walls as an outpost, a foothold in the war. Perhaps even as a substitute after what was lost in Helgen. And she knows you, Varian, she'll make them spare you resources for your cooperation."

"She can keep her resources."

"Don't you see? You may well be damning your own hold for what's history now—"

A great echo thundered across Dragonsreach, as Varian's fist struck the throne. Bolvar fell silent in the gesture's wake, but the fire remained in his eyes, the burn in his locked jaw.

"Whiterun," the king growled, "declines."

Bolvar breathed, turning from a look of exasperation to one of desperation. "Varian—"

"Tell the courier."

The highlord grimaced, but only bowed his head. As he turned and left, Varian watched, braced for another objection that never came. Finally, the king relaxed and slumped in his throne, pinching the bridge of his nose and warily permitting a deep sigh. This war would be the death of him.

Bolvar made quick work of returning to and shooing the courier, even as the girl attempted to recount the earnestness of Solitude's missive. The highlord had dismissed at least a dozen messengers before her, and had since hardened to the ritual. Eventually, the courier relented, and began her long walk back to Haafingar.

Bolvar chose to remain there, outside the great doors of Dragonsreach, if only to let the cold sap the last of the argument's heat from him. He leaned on one of the pillars, crossed his arms, and sighed. He feared Varian's excuses for so vehemently denying the Legion were not coming from a place of rationale. Surely, swearing loyalty to the Imperial Legion was by no means ideal, and hadn't been for a few decades now.

But the last several months had been stressful on the king for too many reasons. Anduin had left for Cyrodiil before the war even started, a fact Bolvar found himself frequently forgetting, for even though Anduin's absence from Whiterun had been long, this war, not even a year old, felt utterly timeless. He still recalled the resulting chaos, when Anduin caught word of High King Terenas Menethil's death and nearly walked back to Skyrim himself, if not for Varian's unyielding assurance that such measures were unnecessary; Anduin's studies didn't have to suffer for a tragedy out of his control.

Yet Bolvar knew that hadn't been why Varian insisted he stay in Cyrodiil and, consequentially, out of war-torn Skyrim.

"Highlord."

Bolvar startled, and only relaxed when he looked behind him, and saw who stood in the doorway. "Umbrua."

The medic smiled with an acknowledging nod. "Prince Anduin asks for you."

At this, the highlord squinted. "Is everything all right?"

"He is well," Umbrua said, "but he wishes to speak with you."

"Of course," Bolvar said, rising from the pillar. "Thank you."

Umbrua nodded again, then disappeared ahead of him into the hall. Bolvar rubbed his face, pushing out the last of the fire from his disagreement with Varian, then reentered Dragonsreach. He made his way to Anduin's room and knocked.

The response he got was nearly immediate, and eager. "Come in!"

Bolvar peeked in, and saw Anduin sitting upright in bed, looking just as keen as his voice had inferred. It was consoling, actually, to see the prince so alert. "You sent for me, your highness?"

"Yes, I need to ask you something," Anduin said. He gestured urgently at the doorway. "Come in, please!"

Bolvar resisted a smile and stepped in, closing the door behind him. It was on the brink of unnerving, how naturally Anduin seemed to be settling back into Dragonsreach after everything he'd undergone. Yet Bolvar was certain whatever urgent project he was working on had everything to do with it, and he worried some what this project could thusly be. The prince was somewhat eased by the shut door, but he remained very keen to the task at hand.

"Now," Bolvar said, as he neared the bedside. "What's this about?"

"Did the Dragonborn ever receive that stone artifact from you?"

Bolvar blinked. That certainly wasn't what he'd expected—though, he hadn't known what he _did_ expect. "The dragonstone?"

Anduin gave a single, short nod, his eyes fixed on Bolvar. "Yes, he asked me for it in Riverwood and I told him you had it. Did you give it to him?"

"He mentioned it," Bolvar said. He shifted his feet, thinking back to it. "He was very interested in having it, and I even wanted to give it to him. But Lady Katrana had already asked me to bring it to her."

At this, Anduin tensed, and Bolvar was surprised to find distress in his face. "You gave it to Katrana?"

"I told the Dragonborn he could accompany us to Whiterun, if he liked, and ask Lady Katrana for it in Dragonsreach," Bolvar said. "She was, however, unwilling to part with it."

Anduin frowned and cupped his mouth in a hand. He looked somewhere else, evidently thinking, though Bolvar still found the whole mention of the dragonstone surprising. He hadn't much expected Anduin to be as invested in the artifact as Wrathion was, though perhaps that'd just been careless of him. Anduin had, after all, chosen to keep the tablet since he first found it in Bleak Falls.

"Why do you ask?" the highlord finally said.

Anduin snapped out of his thoughts, looking at Bolvar as though he'd forgotten they were talking. He recovered quickly, as usual, and smiled tensely. "I just know he was very eager to have it."

Well, if _that_ wasn't a blatant lie. Bolvar squinted some. Anduin didn't budge, so the highlord relented. "I see." The prince wasn't wrong about that, as evidenced by the recent invasion of the Dragonborn's agents. Bolvar rubbed his mouth. "Well, Lady Katrana agreed to have it sent to him once she was finished with it."

"What does Katrana want with it?" Anduin asked.

Bolvar nearly thought the question silly, until he remembered Anduin hadn't been present for any of the political proceedings regarding the dragon crisis. "She's been appointed by your father to investigate the dragons' return."

Anduin nodded, looking a little struck with his own realization of how obvious it'd been. "She can read it," he said, more to himself than Bolvar. He shifted his jaw, then fixed his attention on the highlord. "Has she learned anything from it?"

"Some," Bolvar said, and went on when Anduin egged him with raised eyebrows. "She hasn't said much about it—typical Katrana—but, yes, I believe she's unraveled some answers from it."

"Hm," was all Anduin said.

"'Hm', your highness?"

Anduin held back an amused smile. "The Dragonborn and I speculated about it in Riverwood."

"Did you?"

"Oh, what'd it say..." Anduin glanced away, racking his mind for a moment. He sighed. "I don't remember the exact words, but, we thought it might point to necromancy—at least, I did."

Bolvar blinked, somewhat surprised. "The dragons' return?"

Anduin nodded. "I saw the second dragon—Creed—I saw him emerge from the earth before you found me. I'm fine!" he insisted when Bolvar nearly burst with alarm right there. "I wasn't hurt."

Bolvar, again, saw right through the lie.

"Much," Anduin added quietly, then hurried on. "But it was some kind of magic Deathwing used to draw Creed out of the ground. Or, well... I think."

The highlord crossed his arms and considered it for a moment. "Hm."

Anduin smirked. "'Hm', Highlord?"

Bolvar bit down a laugh. "You got this theory from the dragonstone itself?"

"Once the Dragonborn translated it for me, yes," Anduin said, then paused. "And some other clues, like Creed's strange appearance. And..."

"And?"

But Anduin only frowned and shook his head. "There's a lot to go through."

The highlord nodded and unfolded his arms. "Perhaps Lady Katrana might benefit from your insight."

"Do you think so?"

"I can send for her, if you—" He stopped, then, as Anduin paled at least a handful of shades. "Anduin?"

He shook himself, blinking repeatedly, as if to chase back stars. "I—I'm sure she's busy," he lied, knew it was a weak excuse and spoke before Bolvar could finish opening his mouth. "And, I... I don't think I'm ready to go over Bleak Falls so soon."

Bolvar watched him, for a moment, but accepted his distress at face value. "Of course. Then, when your injury permits it, you might visit her in her study," he said, offering a reassuring smile. "Although, she is leaving soon."

Anduin blinked. "Leaving?"

"She has authorization from your father to go on a research outing," Bolvar explained. "An excavation of sorts, if I recall."

Anduin closed his mouth, considering that. "She'll send the stone to the Dragonborn first though, won't she?"

Bolvar's brow furrowed only just. The prince was very hung up on this. "I would imagine so? She can't do much with it outside of her study."

Anduin looked worried. Bolvar could tell, even as he actively tried to hide his concern. Eventually, before he could ask, the prince gave a small nod. "I see. Thank you, Bolvar."

The highlord forced a quick smile and let it go. "How _is_ your leg, anyway?"

"Everyone has to ask," Anduin joked, eyeing him. The prince glanced at it, and pulled his knee up some. "It doesn't hurt anymore. At least, as long as it's medicated and I don't touch it."

"Is that what got your father out of here?" Bolvar said with a grin.

Anduin laughed. "I had to _beg_ him not to worry. Master Velen says he stayed the entire time I was asleep."

"Just about," Bolvar said. "I handled most of his responsibilities for him."

The prince's face was caught between embarrassment and gratitude, and Bolvar suspected the expression was more about his father than the highlord himself. "You know," he started, restraining more of a smile, "I'd thought maybe he'd worry about me less once I was home."

Bolvar's grin only grew. "Ah, lad," he sighed, and reached to grip Anduin's shoulder; "even if it'd all gone right, he'd still have worried."

Anduin hummed, disbelieving.

"I was here," Bolvar argued teasingly. "Trust me."

He relented, finally allowing himself the smile.

———Hearth Fire 18th———

Summer was receding rapidly. Skyrim was never exactly warm, but Left could feel the grip of colder days settling in as autumn inched toward the Reach. It didn't bother her so much, but she saw the Blacktalons stationed around the outpost shuddering or breathing hot air on their hands.

It'd only been days since she dismissed Osborne to report to Wrathion. He was quicker than most, but Left knew she wouldn't receive any word from him or anyone that might've spoken to him anytime soon. Vaelastrasz remained in their control, tethered down by chains and pikes and maintained by Belmara and Jorik. The dragon had since resigned to his imprisonment, it seemed—though Left had noted he hadn't struggled much after his initial surrender in the first place. Now, at least, he was sometimes known to strike up conversation. Left hadn't learned much—mostly her own name in the dragon language—but she had noticed some things she planned to inform Wrathion of.

Perhaps, most importantly, that Vaelastrasz did not like Deathwing.

He'd never quite said as much, but the way Vaelastrasz spoke of the dragon was telling enough, after listening to him for so long. He didn't just not like Deathwing, he actively _resented_ him. Left wondered how much of his amused or irritated mumbling in his own tongue was about the dragon he called  'Lein Kreniik'. It wasn't unreasonable to think there were dragons that didn't like each other—such things were what led to the mortals' victory when dragons reigned long ago, after all, or so claimed the history books. But after witnessing Vaelastrasz mend Deathwing's injuries, Left found it interesting. Perhaps Wrathion could make use of a dragon that detested one as strong as Deathwing.

Speaking of the red dragon, Left heard him chuckling to himself and glanced at him. Vaelastrasz was not looking at her, but instead at Belmara, who appeared to be struggling to deal with a small fire she'd started on Ormok's boot, instead of the kindling they had nearby. Evidently, her Destruction magic was not her strongest branch. One of Jorik's frost atronachs stomped over and snatched Ormok's ankle, effectively snuffing the fire, but also flipping the orc upside-down when the atronach lifted him into the air. The growing disaster was summarized by a long string of orcish swears Left could only squeeze her eyes shut at the sound of.

"I've noticed something," Vaelastrasz said thoughtfully. "You and your comrades are very... efficient."

Despite his timing, he sounded sincere about the observation. Left only grumbled.

"What do they call you again?" he asked.

"Blacktalons," Left said.

"Vedjuskke," he repeated, and chuckled. "How clever. Why that name? Perhaps for your shadowy nature and your daggers?"

"Does it matter?"

"Niid," he said. "No, I suppose not. Just curious. Perhaps Vedtuzze is more accurate. Blackblades. You do not, after all, possess claws."

Left just squinted at him. He sighed.

"But, no matter. I wonder more about your skill I mentioned. The Dovahkiin seems amply equipped, doesn't he?"

"And?"

"It's like he knew we were coming."

"That's because he did."

Vaelastrasz grinned. Left wasn't an expert in discerning dragon expressions, but he seemed genuinely delighted by the answer and what it implied. "Truly? That's fascinating."

"Is it?"

"It is," Vaelastrasz said, "because not even us Dov knew when, or _if_ we would return."

Left squinted at him. That wasn't something she would have expected the dragon to tell her.

" _How_ did he know?" Vaelastrasz asked, with no malicious intention that Left could find. He was just very, very curious.

Even so, Left only glared at him. The dragon laughed and bowed his head in submission.

"Krosis," he said—Left had figured out, from abundant context, it was in many ways similar to the phrase 'I'm sorry'. "I forget you are as secretive as the shadows you tend to. Most joorre just love to talk about what they know, you see."

If he'd asked Wrathion directly, the dragon probably would have gotten just that.

"But joorre have changed in many ways since I last soared this plane," Vaelastrasz said. He sighed; his wounds, though scabbed and healing, pained him still. "You are prepared for dovahhe, and only a handful of you can take down what once took an army, as you have proven to me. You have grown. Zu'u los frund."

His tone was admiring, which only added to Left's growing confusion about the dragon. His resentment of Deathwing seemed to transcend beyond even that. It wasn't just a dislike for the greater dragon that supplied the spite in his voice when he said 'Lein Kreniik'—the words Left had come to equate to Deathwing's name—but it was something more, something he wouldn't directly address and something Left had failed to puzzle out on her own.

"You don't sound worried," she said.

Vaelastrasz laughed, his good eye closed with the other, his chin resting on his paws. "Dovahhe do not fear," he said, then wheezed on his own amusement. "Or so we claim, because we are too proud to admit there are forces in this world that can... hm." He paused, rolling his head along his claws as he thought. "You do not have a word for it. Forces that can duviing us; that can rend us from the sky."

Left said nothing, but when Vaelastrasz opened his eye, he saw what she was thinking. Mortalkind had driven the dragons to extinction once, and if they were stronger now, that could only spell trouble for the dragons. But he saw, too, the way she wondered what these 'forces' were, and he grinned.

"You... do not remember?"

She squinted.

Vaelastrasz let out a series of wheezing laughs, and groaned at the pain it caused him. His amusement was just that, but there was deep pity hidden in his voice.

"Krosis," he said between laughs. "Krosis, krosis—hei _meyye._ How could you _forget?_ "

Again, he read her eyes, narrowed further in a defensive glare. Did it matter if they forgot this apparent ancient power that the dragons had feared so? It did, she knew and so did he, but her glare asked him if she had to remind him that she and her agents had still 'duviing' him without such power.

"You misunderstand, Vahlut!" he said, his voice broken by his laughter. "You seek the Lein Kreniik—do not give me that look, I know this—you want to _destroy_ him,  geh?" He tried to calm himself, but even through sealed lips, the rumbling of his amusement remained. "You never will. Not without the power to duviing him."

Involuntarily, Left growled.

"Krosis," Vaelastrasz said, but she got the feeling he wasn't talking to her anymore, as he shook his head and buried his nose against his talons. "I should not say such things. It doesn't matter, not if you've forgotten, but I shouldn't."

"Why?"

" _Fahvos?_ " he echoed, baffled and still amused. "Because I am not foolish enough to think I can withstand the Lein Kreniik. If he heard me speak against him... Krosis." He shook his head again. "Krosis, Vahlut. Forgive me."

The laughter was gone, and only the pity remained. Left squinted. Vaelastrasz evidently believed, though out of nowhere, that the mortals' struggle against Deathwing was in vain, and this power that he'd discovered they didn't have was what convinced him. And it amused him, as the simplicity of mortals always seemed to, but at the same time, he was heartbroken. Was it because he hated Deathwing, or because some part of him wanted to see mortalkind succeed? She knew he wouldn't answer a question like that.

"Help us," she said.

Vaelastrasz looked at her. "I cannot help you," he said. "The Lein Kreniik would devour me, from my scales to my bones. He would make certain that not even his Voice could unhand death's claim on me."

"But you want to," she said. Vaelastrasz's one eye hardened. "Would it not be worth it, your one life for mortalkind?"

He grinned falsely, and his laughter was soft and hollow. "You forget, Vahlut," he said. "Dovahhe are too proud to die. It is for this reason we fear your Dovahkiin."

That shocked her. "You're afraid of the Dragonborn?"

" _Terrified,_ " he laughed. "You call him Dragonborn, but that is not what Dovahkiin means. It is not _Dovah_ Kiin, it is _Dov_ Ah Kiin. A  dovah is one dragon; Dov is _all_ dragons. Do you see?"

Left shifted her crossed arms. "Then what does 'ah' mean?"

Vaelastrasz grinned again. "'Ah' is 'hunter', and 'kiin' is 'born', or _'destined',_ I believe, is more appropriate." He grumbled, wincing at his old wounds. "Dragon, hunter, born. One who is born to hunt dragons. _That_ is what  Dovahkiin means."

Left didn't say anything, but he saw from the way her face relaxed that she understood.

"Do you see now why we fear them? They are weapons capable of destroying us. They speak our powerful tongue, eat our immortal souls and make us no more. This word you use, 'Dragonborn', masks the crudity of their birthright in nobility." He chuckled. "But then, what else do I expect from joorre? You, too, are proud."

"We also don't mean to slaughter every other living thing in the known world," Left said.

Vaelastrasz gave one, hard _'hah!'_ that cut into every wound in his body. " Nuz dreh hei ni? War wages on every corner of Taazokaan—this continent you call Tamriel. Whether it be one race or all, isn't it all the same, Vahlut?"

"No," Left said. "It isn't."

Vaelastrasz hummed, at least seeming to admire her conviction. "Besides, you forget not all dovahhe see things as the Lein Kreniik does. I see you ally with men and elves, but not all of your kind would. The Lein Kreniik tells me the Dovahkiin is a sahqomun—a 'redguard', you call them. Were your peoples not once enemies, slaughtering one another for land?"

Left snarled. Vaelastrasz chuckled.

"Dovahhe are no different. But—krosis." He dipped his nose into his paws once more. "I should not say such things."

The ridge turned quiet after that, save for the wind that whistled through it. Left considered what she'd learned, though most of it was hidden in riddles or dragon words, but it was valuable nonetheless.

"Left!"

She turned toward the voice, easily Syurna's. The wood elf stepped back, nodding to an approaching stranger—a troll woman. Left recognized her leather; she was a Blacktalon. The orc straightened as the agent, followed by Syurna, finished her approach, obviously winded from a long journey. Left had hope of her business here.

"You are?"

"Jamai," the Blacktalon answered. She shifted her weight, the jewelry adorning her ears rattling with the motion. "I come bearin' a report on Deathwing."

That was just what Left wanted to hear. "You found him?"

"Yeah," Jamai grinned, there, her eyes crinkling. "There be rumors everywhere about the big guy tearin' up plains and mountains east ways. Some say he's diggin' up dragons."

Left grumbled at that, but crossed her arms again. "You have a party following him?"

"Sure do."

"Good," she said, then turned toward where she'd seen the agents messing around earlier. "Ormok! Rane!"

The two Blacktalons appeared in moments. Ormok's boot remained a bit blackened. Left glanced them over and, satisfied with their alertness, turned to Jamai again.

"You'll be leading us to the group tracking Deathwing."

Jamai sneered gleefully and offered a poor mimicry of a human salute. "Aye aye."

Left's eyes moved to Syurna. "You are in charge of the dragon and all operations here. Tony is your second, unless you have an objection."

Syurna's eyes were sharp, and she offered one steady nod. "Good luck."

Left grunted in turn, then nodded at Rane and Ormok. "Get ready. We leave in ten minutes."

The agents vanished as quickly as they'd appeared. Jamai grumbled something under her breath—probably about needing a rest, but a quick glance from Left silenced her and she took a seat to wait out the others, periodically eyeing the dragon behind Left with an uncertain squint. The orc paused, considering, then faced Vaelastrasz.

"This power—"

"I cannot help you," Vaelastrasz grumbled, his eyes squeezed shut as he silently willed his wounds, irritated from their earlier conversation, to settle.

"I'm not asking you to," Left said. "But it can help us defeat Deathwing?"

The red dragon chuckled.

"Vahlut..." He gave a deep sigh. "It is _all_ that can defeat him."

———Hearth Fire 18th———

"Curious."

Light trickled in from the windows, though Wrathion suspected the sun hadn't technically broken the horizon yet. Or perhaps it had—he had little mind for time. He was preoccupied with Rell's communication device anyway, and had been since he and Mishka retired for the night in another room, leaving Wrathion to inspect the stolen gadget. He twisted it all around in his hands, observing the dull gold metal with a keen interest. While it looked cleaned and polished, its age still bled through, the purity of its shine as lost as the dwemer themselves. The people of the deep, as their name translated to, were an utterly fascinating if mysterious race. Their inexplicable disappearance from the world in the First Era remained one of the most peculiar things about them, a puzzle yet unsolved even so many centuries later.

Wrathion flipped the device on its back and popped the door open for the umpteenth time. There inside was a soul gem, and though Wrathion knew enough about Conjuration magic to determine that it was, indeed, imbued with a soul, he didn't know how Katrana could've put only a 'piece' in the thing. Maybe if he'd spent all his time in a mage college instead of nordic ruins, but then, it wasn't the dwarves popping out of the history books to wreak havoc on the present day.

He'd be quite excited if the long-lost people of the deep reappeared though.

"Very curious," he said to himself. He sat forward in his chair, which he'd since moved out of the corner, and tapped the soul gem. "How do you work, you _curious_ little thing?"

It was a good thing Katrana couldn't hear him talking to her gadget. Or, Wrathion assumed she couldn't, as she hadn't answered in the hours he'd spent mumbling. Actually, based on what he _did_ understand about it, he thought the only way Katrana _would_ hear him was if Rell heard him through a wall. He frowned. He'd have to make sure to keep his voice down.

He sat back again, and pulled his feet up to perch his heels on the edge of the chair, holding the device over his head. The sunlight offered a pretty gleam on the gold and the imbued soul gem, but failed to shed any light on the mystery of the contraption itself.

'A very small part' of a soul. That's how Katrana had put it. But what did that actually mean? How did one fragment a soul? Weren't spirits supposed to be immortal or indestructible or however the nord myths went? Though he supposed it wasn't _destroyed,_ really, just... divided. But _how?_

Wrathion winced at the sparkling soul gem. He thought, for a very long time, then sat up and went through his bag. He emerged from it with one of the soul gems Fahrad had sent to him, and pinched between two fingers, he compared it to the soul gem in the device. There was an obvious difference in color, as Wrathion's was empty and Katrana's held a 'very small part' of her soul. Wrathion squinted again.

He set the device on the armrest and clenched the empty soul gem in his teeth. Then he plucked his dagger off his belt and sliced a shallow cut in his palm, wincing some for the trouble. He set the knife aside, retrieved the gem and held his hand over it. Blood dripped from the wound and touched the gem. Nothing happened. Wrathion screwed up his nose.

"Next time, just spit on it."

He jumped, nearly lunging out of his seat, but looked up and spotted Right staring back at him. He kicked his feet off the chair to sit forward. "You're—"

"Please, don't look surprised," Right said. Her voice was hoarse and small, something Wrathion wasn't used to and didn't like. "I'm supposed to be an expert dragon fighter."

"You are," he hissed. "Your only downfall was the frost affinity."

She blinked, stunned, then gave a rasping laugh. "I hate the cold."

Wrathion smiled and scooted the chair closer.

"Where are we?" Right asked, glancing at the room. "And who helped you get me here?"

"Why does someone have to have helped me?" Wrathion complained.

She snorted. "Really?"

"Shut up," he groaned. "We're in Ivarstead."

She nodded, drawing a deep breath. Wrathion didn't miss the vague shudder, as the dragon's chill still clung to her.

"Do you remember the Kirin Tor?" Wrathion asked, hiding his disapproval of her shaking under an air of pride. "We're going to answer them after all."

"Well, look at you," Right joked. "Ysmir, Dragon of the North."

The pride was promptly lost to annoyance. "Don't."

"They're going to call you that," she said.

"Not if they want to see their old age."

"How old do you think the Kirin Tor are?"

"Shut up."

She grinned. "So Whiterun helped you?"

Wrathion bristled. "How the—"

"That thing," she said, nodding at the dwemer device. "Highlord What's His Face had one. Unless that's his and you stole it, but either way, you're a liar."

"How am I a li—"

"'I don't steal from Whiterun'? Ring any bells?"

He huffed. "That was a simpler time."

"No lo'igra."

"Yes, _okay,_ I'm a liar—can we move on?"

"Whiterun's here?"

"Ah." Wrathion shifted, composing himself. "Yes—apparently, my agents in Dragonsreach failed. They're all dead."

Right gave a single, hard blink. "That's harsh. Who killed them?"

"They don't know." He cleared his throat. "So they took it upon themselves to inform me personally. Perhaps they're still coming up with ways to thank me for the safe return of their prince."

"I'm not sure 'safe' is the word I'd use."

"Oh, he's home, isn't he?"

"Minus a piece or two, yeah."

"His leg was... _there._ " Wrathion winced. "Sort of. Anyway." He cleared his throat. "You and I have a mountain to ascend."

"You were serious," Right said.

"Of course I was serious, wasn't that obvious?" he whined. "They won't convert me to their frivolous Way, but their extensive knowledge of the Voice is something I've sought after for years. Why, the Throat of the World was nearly the first landmark I visited upon arriving in Skyrim!"

"I don't believe it," Right said dryly. She did. "Why didn't you go?"

"Tuh," he scoffed, "Fahrad warned me they wouldn't take my claim as Dragonborn seriously, and would only commune with me if I agreed to their philosophies. Unless they saw proper evidence of my being Dragonborn, they'd treat me like any other aspiring Tongue. Unfortunately, I didn't know any Shouts back then." He shrugged, cocking his head to the side. "By the time I learned them, I'd forgotten about the Kirin Tor. In fact, I had decided I didn't _need_ them."

"You don't seem to think so now."

"Hmgh," he groaned. "Recent events have... humbled me."

Right raised an eyebrow. Wrathion turned defensive and shifted in his seat.

"Yes, well—" he sputtered. "Perhaps you had a point at Autumnwatch. _Maybe._ "

When she didn't say anything, he made the mistake of glancing up at her. She'd only raised her eyebrow higher. He flinched, indignant, and finally just sighed.

"Fine, you _definitely_ had a point," he grumbled.

She smiled, and it was certainly teasing, but there was something less patronizing in there somewhere.

"So we're going to visit the Kirin Tor," he hurried on, "and I'm going to sponge up every bit of information I can before they cut me off."

"When are we going?"

"Huh?" He glanced at her, and when she failed to realize the oddness of her question, he squinted. "I—well, how do you feel?"

"Cold," she said. "What else is new?"

He scowled. "I'm not dragging you up the Seven-Thousand Steps when, not a day ago, you were half-dead."

"You hate sitting around."

"I also hate _wasting resources,_ " he growled.

Right knew what he meant by 'resources', but refrained from saying anything. The sentiment went silently noted. "Give me the day, if you don't mind traveling at night."

He scrutinized her words, then finally relented and relaxed in his seat. "Tomorrow morning, then."

"You sure?"

"It's cold after dark." He shrugged. "You hate the cold."

Right just grinned.

———Hearth Fire 18th———

Glass splintered underneath the girl's boot. She glanced down and pulled her foot aside, and immersed with the snow were shards of red and blue and gold, glinting faintly in the new torches perched around the room. She knelt down and swiped one of the shards off the floor, to hold it up in the light and take a better look at it. Though broken and dusted, the window did bear a striking resemblance to the one back home.

Although, she couldn't much call it home anymore, could she?

"We're the first three here," her companion said, his deep voice ever capable of rumbling a room. Considering how old and worn this one was, she worried such a voice might collapse it. He gestured to the third besides him, a redguard woman with eyes as blue and bright as stars.

"The rest will come," the first answered as she examined the glass.

Her throaty companion only offered a grunt in response. He moved closer, his feet clopping over the cobblestone floor. He sighed, a rough noise, and she saw white air fill up the space his breath took. He eyed the glass in her hand, then the hole in the wall where the window had, once upon a time, stood proud.

"That can be repaired," he said.

"It's not an emergency."

She discarded the shard and knelt again, where she began to unstrap and unbutton the convoluted design of her leather. Her companions paid her no mind as she undressed, until all that protected her torso from the cold was the bindings around her chest and an edge-frayed bandage wrapped around her shoulder, the latter of which she pulled away too. She winced as the frozen air from the snowed-in caverns through the window bit and swiped at the burns that mutilated her back still. The flames that had left them were of no normal magic, but then, knowing what had cast them, she had never suspected as much.

She scooped a handful of snow into her hand, inspected it, and then placed it on her shoulder. She seethed as the cold slid down her back, melting and numbing the heat, but it served to console the wounds some. The redguard, ever silent in voice and step, crouched behind her comrade and laid more snow on the wounds. The first shuddered, but it was easier for the redguard to do it.

"You haven't healed," her gruffer companion noted.

"They're burns," she said. "They take time to fade."

"These are no normal burns."

She glanced over her shoulder at him, then laughed once, falsely. "You can tell."

"Did you hope I'd write them off as the same fires the Legionnaires left our home in?"

"That'd have been preferable, yes."

He sighed again. "Then the dragon—"

"Yes," she cut in.

"You should have said something."

"And what? No city is safe for us. You least of all—look at you." She glanced at him again. "Few forget a big black bull."

Her companion shuffled his feet—his _hooves,_ rather. "Perhaps," he agreed. "But they don't have to recognize you."

"Don't be stupid."

"Take off your mask," he said. "Cut your hair. Who would know? Few even remember he had a daughter, much less think she lives."

She squinted and shifted her jaw, then looked away as the redguard soothed her wounds with more snow. "Maybe."

"Consider it," he urged. "We have few other options."

"Don't we?"

"We've lost it all," he said, on the brink of a growl. "We're broken—"

The redguard removed her hands from their work, twisting in her crouch toward the tauren. Both her comrades looked as she made a series of quick gestures with her hands, ones the tauren didn't understand, but the imperial did.

"Jitters is coming," she translated.

" _Jitters?_ " the tauren laughed scornfully. "Jitters is likely dead."

"He's coming," the imperial repeated.

"How can you be so sure?"

The redguard looked to the younger girl, twisting her hands in more silent words that the imperial read with ease. When the redguard was finished, the girl looked down and brushed what frost still sat on the floor away, revealing even more shards of the stained glass window. She organized the pieces, not in their original form, but until they mirrored, in a multi-coloredness that was as disjointed as her family, the shape of her hand.

"She hears Her," she answered. "Jitters is coming, and so is She."

The tauren said nothing else. She stood again, and with a swipe of her foot, the hand disappeared in a mess of glass and snow.

"In the meantime, this place is a mess," she said, eyeing the room in question. It was a dining or gathering room at one point, she speculated. The overturned wood table, malformed and rotting, told her as much. "Until everyone else catches up, we might as well tidy up. Get me a shovel or something."

"Yes, miss."

"And," she paused, considering. She tilted her head to one shoulder, and pulled her long dark hair over the other. "Get me something sharp."

The redguard grinned broadly, and in a flash, went for a knife on her hip.

"What do you suppose a good alias would be?" the imperial asked as she ran fingers through her hair.

"Well," the tauren shifted his weight again, as the redguard offered her blade. "It's the dawning of a new chapter. What do you feel?"

She considered it, as she positioned the knife above where her fist balled a handful of hair. She sliced, and let the clump drop to the floor with the glass and snow. She slipped her free hand through what remained, evening it out and cutting ends as she went. She was satisfied when it hovered about her jaw, flaring outward as the ends relished the release of weight. It reminded her just a bit of spread wings, like a black phoenix. From beneath her mask, she smirked.

"Hope."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [dragon translations](http://textuploader.com/5f4pd).
> 
> i wasn't exactly PLANNING on a christmas update, but uh, one happened anyway? happy holidays! and apologies for the extra delay on this one—my brain's been on other things. hopefully, with a break from a few of said things, and with the holidays winding up, i'll be able to manage my time & energy a bit more satisfyingly!
> 
> in the meantime, have some quiet developments. silence is golden, as they say.


	24. Ven Voth Rotte

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **content warnings:** this one's pretty tame? unless you're not into politics.

Chapter 24: Ven Voth Rotte  
"A Way With Words"

———Hearth Fire 19th———

"Ah! The fifth one!"

"How many of these things are there?"

"You aren't _tired,_ are you?"

Right fired him a look. Wrathion just huffed and dismissively waved her off, distracting himself with his notes.

"Go find someplace to rest, then," he whined. "I want to analyze these anyway."

"Gladly," Right said, and veered off to a shaded alcove.

She dropped into a sit on a relatively comfy stone, and slumped against the wall of the alcove. Every inch of her ached, and more so than she was used to. The breeze that swarmed the mountain, catching snow and whatever else its strength could lift, was cruel to the lingering chill of the blue dragon's frost magic that still hung onto the deepest places in her bones. She'd told Wrathion it was gone, and for a while it even had been, until this damned mountain breathed all its frigid air on her constantly. The kicked up snow stuck to her leather like the shed fuzz of a pesky animal. Her muscles were all tense and aching, and it was only luck that Wrathion had chosen to believe her when she said it was just her usual distaste for the cold.

She glanced ahead, where Wrathion had scampered on to dissect the fifth tablet they'd crossed since starting up the Seven Thousand Steps that morning. The first one had been right at the foot of the mountain, and upon reading it, Wrathion noticed it was numbered and insisted on finding the rest of them. That only made the trip slower, especially when they'd completely missed the third one and were forced, by Wrathion's pride and insatiable curiosity, to backtrack. At least the fact he had hunkered down in front of this one to read it and jot down its contents suggested it was indeed the fifth, and they hadn't missed another one.

Right sighed and laid her head against the wall again. The snow was blinding to stare at, as it reflected the sun that burned in the middle of the sky. They'd left early, since Wrathion had slept through most of the daylight yesterday and only managed to rest partially through the night because of it, but it was already midday and Right had no clue if they were close. It'd help if she had any idea how many of these tablets there were. Were they halfway? A quarter? She knew High Hrothgar, the Kirin Tor's home, wasn't at the _peak_ -peak of the mountain, but how close to the summit was 'almost'? She groaned. She liked cave-diving more than mountain-climbing.

"This one is my favorite so far."

Right peeled an eye open and glanced down. Sure enough, Wrathion had returned, and with his nose stuck in his book. She scooted over as he, without looking, came over to sit down. "Why's that?" she asked.

"Here," he said, holding the page to her and pointing it out. He'd written the whole thing in dragon, like the tablet itself, of course—she'd been positive for years he just liked to flaunt his fluency in the language, written _and_ spoken. "'Man prevailed, shouting Neltharion out of this world, proving for all that their Voice too was strong, though their sacrifices were many-fold'."

"Of course," Right said. "You're always up for stories about dragons getting done in."

"Always," he agreed, pulling the book back into his lap. "And this is the first one to mention Neltharion. Perhaps the Kirin Tor remember more about him than most." He smiled, and not that smarmy grin kind of smile. It was the one she was more accustomed to him making in dimly lit caverns, when his curiosity had been effectively tickled, and it usually meant she was in for a lot more waiting around while he studied. "I might ask them!"

"Try to keep your interest in destroying him to a minimum," she suggested. "Pacifists, remember?"

"These are _dragons,_ Right."

"Uh-huh," she said, unconvinced. "And Fahrad wanted you to 'negotiate' with them. You don't think the Kirin Tor are going to be at least as preachy?"

He grumbled to himself—something that sounded almost like 'fair enough'. He flipped through his notes for a while. "Have I ever mentioned anyone named _Alexstrasza_ before?"

Right screwed up her nose, having since shut her eyes to relax. "No?"

"Hm," was all Wrathion offered for some moments. "The tablet before mentions them. 'Kyne called on Alexstrasza, who pitied man'."

"Sounds like Alexstrasza was a dragon."

"Well, one of them had to betray the rest of their kind and teach the mortals to Shout," Wrathion said. He continued to make faces at his notes. "I just don't know why the name isn't familiar."

"Ask the Kirin Tor," Right said. "If they know Neltharion, they'll know the other name on their shrines, won't they?"

He whined, annoyed. "I suppose." He went back to reading his notes for a time, until he suddenly laughed. "The dragons apparently used to only use their Voices for 'True Needs' as well."

"That's hard to believe."

"According to this, it's true," he said. "And I've seen other documents suggesting a similar era of peace among dragonkind. Before they all turned to ravenous bloodlust, that is."

"I wonder what spooked them?"

"Jealousy," he said dully, flipping a page, "if I recall. It hardly matters now."

"That seems to be debatable."

Wrathion rolled his eyes. " _Stop_ bringing up Fahrad."

Right only shrugged, feigning an apology Wrathion knew was insincere. He just groaned and returned to his book.

"Don't dragon names denote color?"

"Hm?" Wrathion said absently, tilting his head toward her. It took him a moment to register the question. "Ah—usually. Alexstrasza would be..."

"A red, right? Your favorite."

Wrathion screwed up his nose. "Yes, most likely."

"Maybe that's why they're so rare," Right said, half as a joke.

Wrathion glanced at her and narrowed his eyes. "I don't follow."

"Well," she started, sitting up. "If this Alexstrasza turned against the other dragons, maybe the rest of the reds followed them."

"Shouldn't that have instead made the reds _more_ common?" Wrathion argued. "If it was the rest that continued to attack mortalkind, theoretically the reds would be many of the last to perish. The mortals would have had bigger concerns than Alexstrasza and their followers."

"Unless the mortals took advantage of their submission," Right said.

Wrathion considered it. "And killed them all first, while they refused to fight?" He grinned. "How _ruthless._ Dragonslayers after my own heart."

"Maybe your ancestors," she teased.

"I _don't_ think that's historically accurate," he said. "But, it's a nice sentiment."

He only sifted through his book for a few more minutes, before snapping the pages closed and leaping to his feet with an energy Right had no idea the source of.

"Time to go!"

"Already?" Right whined, rolling her head. "You're killing me."

Wrathion snorted, pocketing the notes in his chest armor. "You're welcome to wait here, if you prefer."

"And leave you to be bored to death by the Kirin Tor?"

"Ah, Right, the Kirin Tor are many things, but not boring!" He said, beaming that scholar-stricken smile again. "From their mastery of the Voice to their suggested wealth of dragon history, I truly could spend months, _years_ up here, if only they'd let me and if only there were time."

Right just scoffed, and achingly rose to her feet. "At least spend a few days so my muscles can recover."

Wrathion pouted and crossed his arms. "I'm starting to think I should have asked Whiterun to stay so I might've left you in Ivarstead."

"I'm fine," she bit out.

"Yes, your sluggish movement must just be my imagination," he said, casting her a hooded scowl. He shrugged and turned toward the steps. "Well, if you insist, let's keep moving."

Right swallowed a groan, picked herself up and pursued him as he marched with all the energy in the world higher up the Throat of the World. If the tablets suggested they were halfway to High Hrothgar, it certainly didn't feel like they were. The sun crawled through the remainder of the sky, and the only traces of it, by the time the monastery came into view, was the deep red that stained the western horizon. Even Wrathion was waning by then, but the prospect of more tablets seemed to drive him on.

"Here!" Wrathion said, hurrying up to what, to Right, felt like the three-hundredth tablet. This one, uniquely, had a statue of a man built on top of it. "The ninth."

"Is that all?"

"Shh." He flipped open his book and began translating the draconic runes. "'For years all silent, the Kirin Tor spoke one name. Uther Lightbringer'— _Talos,_ " he glanced at Right informatively. She rolled her eyes. Wrathion shrugged and returned to the tablet. "—'stripling then, was summoned to Hrothgar. They blessed and named him...'"

Wrathion grinned.

"'Dovahkiin'."

"Ysmir," Right said, with a matter-of-factness that called back to the first time she'd said it in Ivarstead. "Dragon of the North."

Wrathion side-eyed her. "Don't ruin it."

"You really don't like being called 'dragon', do you, _Dragon_ born?"

"That's different," he whined. "'Dragon of the North' is so..."

"Nordic?" Right tried.

"Yes!" he said. "As if dragons aren't a threat to _all_ of Tamriel, and as if only _nords_ are fit to stop them."

"Funny how history gets construed like that, huh?"

"Hilarious," he lied. He sniffed and started scribbling in his notes. "Uther Lightbringer wasn't even a nord."

"That's debatable."

" _Probably_ wasn't a nord," he corrected irritably, then snapped his book closed and moved on. "High Hrothgar is just ahead. Was that the last one? Nine seems like a silly number to end on."

"Maybe after the Nine Divines?" Right said. "The last one's even about Talos."

"Maybe. I don't like it."

"You and your round numbers."

"It's _tidier_  that way."

Right shrugged. "Maybe it's foreshadowing."

"Don't. Whatever joke you're making, I already hate it."

"Uther became Talos. Maybe—"

"I will not be the Tenth Divine."

"I bet Uther said the same thing."

"I was right! I loathe this joke."

"Who said anything about jokes?"

"Oh, good, there's the tenth tablet!"

He said it at a volume that successfully convinced Right to drop the subject. The last tablet, identical to the first eight in the way that it lacked any sort of memorial statue, sat just to the right of a staircase that led up to the doors of High Hrothgar. Wrathion ignored the monastery, though beautiful and reminiscent of a fortress in its design, to peer into the alcove of the tablet and start reading. Right saw his usual excitement of reading the dragon language slip from his face as he finished the admittedly short message.

"Of course," he said, straightening again. "An anticlimactic ending."

"Something peacekeep-y?" Right guessed.

He scoffed. "'Speak only in True Need'."

"How's a dragon apocalypse for True Need?" Right joked.

A voice, but not Wrathion's, answered.

"An ample one, I'd say."

Wrathion and Right turned together. From the winding steps of the monastery, one man had descended. He pulled his hood back—though Wrathion had already noticed he was quite younger than he expected a Tongue of the Kirin Tor to be—and unleashed a flurry of red hair to the wind.

"Dovahkiin," he greeted with a Voice Wrathion, upon hearing it, knew could move mountains. "My name is Rhonin. We've been expecting you."

———Hearth Fire 19th———

Anduin was drawing when it happened again. A humidity filled the air, the fleeting sunset turned silver and cold, and the lingering infection and dragon fire flared in his blood. Anduin's breath caught in his throat; his pen dropped out of a flinched hand into the blankets. His eyes shot up from his sketchbook, where the walls rained waterfalls and the ceiling parted for moonlight. He heard Bleak Falls' groaning stone walls and ran the heels of his palms over his eyes, willing the false sights away.

 _"But!"_ A voice echoed, false in the way the raining walls were. _"If you hand me the stone, I could remind myself."_

Anduin looked up, and his room no longer resembled the chamber with the Word Wall, but a corridor lit with glowing flora. Seated in front of him, just like when they'd first met—a moment he only barely remembered—was a human face with dragon eyes.

"I don't have it," Anduin said. He didn't know why the words came out of his mouth, but he had said them before. When?

A knocking came to the door. Anduin startled, and with a blink, Wrathion vanished. The prince stared, stunned by the sudden emptiness in the room. It wasn't the first time the walls fell away and visages of Bleak Falls seeped in around him.

"Anduin?"

He shook his head to disperse the haze, then rubbed his eyes. "Come in."

The door opened, and Anduin already knew, from his voice, to expect his father on the other side. Varian spared a glance around the room, then entered. "I thought I heard you talking to someone."

"Ah," Anduin struggled to answer. He shifted, sliding his notebook aside to hide it, only to realize it'd make a decent excuse. "Just criticizing my drawing hand."

He wasn't sure if Varian bought it, but his father didn't push the topic further. "Mind if I sit?"

"No!" Anduin said, somehow surprised by the question. "Please, if you're not busy."

Varian gave a slight smile and pulled up one of the chairs from the wall to sit on Anduin's bedside—thankfully, enough out of the way that, in the off-chance the hallucinations returned, perhaps Anduin could ignore them.

He winced. 'Hallucinations' was a pretty crude way to put it, but he wasn't sure he felt any more comfortable calling them something fancy like _'visions'._

He was distracted from his thoughts when Varian sighed, now settled in his seat. Anduin could see, quite clearly, how tired his father was. And it wasn't like Varian was ever _not_ tired—not with the responsibilities he had—but the sheer weight of his exhaustion seemed to draw down the king's shoulders and the skin beneath his eyes. Anduin hadn't seen such a heavy look on his father in years, but he did remember one other time he'd looked as bad.

It said a lot, that the only thing that could recreate the misery of Tiffin Wrynn's death was civil war and _dragons._

"How do you feel?"

It was like his father could tell Anduin was connecting the dots; he practically snatched the beginnings of the prince's consoling words out of his own mouth. It took him a moment to readjust, and he pretended to check the leg he knew his father was asking about to fill the gap.

"Better," he said. "Master Velen thinks I might be able to start practicing with that prosthetic soon."

"Does he?" Varian said. Anduin caught the concern.

"I'm going to lose my mind if I'm bedridden much longer," he said, smiling coyly.

Varian attempted to hide the worry with an amused smirk, one that was virtually transparent to Anduin by now. "Just. Take it easy."

"I will," Anduin promised. He leaned when he noticed Varian lose himself to his thoughts. "I will," he said again, startling his father, who only offered a nod in turn.

After, Varian laid back in his seat and rubbed his mouth in his hands. He stared out Anduin's window for a while, though Anduin wasn't sure why. He suspected it wasn't really the window Varian was looking at anyway.

"So—" the prince started, then quickly stopped. The topic of the civil war was one he only knew so much about. More than most people who had been outside of Skyrim the last several months, he was sure, but less than a prince of the country had any right.

But the topic was delicate. And Anduin knew it wasn't something he could simply dive right into. But he also knew it wasn't something he could ignore. Not if it made him think of the only other time Varian had been in his worst shape. And Anduin was _older,_ now—maybe there was more he could do. If he couldn't help his father here, what did that say about his ability to help anyone else?

"How was Cyrodiil?" Varian asked.

Anduin smiled, a cross of amused and sympathetic. "Didn't we already talk about it when I woke up?"

"Maybe," Varian said. "I don't quite remember, honestly. I had my mind on other things."

Anduin nodded. "Right. Did I tell you about the Imperial City?"

He smiled. "Tell me again."

"It's _beautiful,_ " Anduin said. "The White-Gold Tower is—it's something else. I've never seen anything like it. Honestly, I wish I could've seen the Library."

"Where they keep the Elder Scrolls?"

"Yes! Wouldn't that be amazing?" He sighed, collecting himself. "Anyway—I didn't spend all my time there. I probably admired it from afar more than I actually stood in it. The City has _seven whole districts_ —it's huge! I don't think _tripling_ my stay could've given me the time to see all of it. The Arboretum is _gorgeous_ —I don't even know how many times I visited it—and honestly, the Plains District here is quiet compared to the Market. The Temple of the One is beautiful, too, even if dragons are a bit of a touchy subject right now. I saw the Dragonfires! And the—"

He stopped when he noticed Varian's hand raised, the king resisting most of his laughter. "It sounds spectacular," he said. "What of your studies?"

"The Arcane University!" Anduin beamed, then immediately corrected the expression. "I mean, Winterhold is amazing, of course, but the _University_ —huge, firstly, and full of almost enough knowledge to make me forget about the Library in the White-Gold Tower. Divines, I've been so wrapped up in coming home—the good _and_ the bad of that—I forgot just how much I _learned._ "

"You're not going back any time soon, are you?" Varian joked, but Anduin suspected it was a genuine question.

"Not for a while, at least," he said, and almost ended it at that, until he saw an opportunity to steer the conversation elsewhere. "Definitely not before this civil war is over with. I didn't receive much word of it in Cyrodiil—what's going on?"

Not to the prince's surprise, Varian's face sobered at the change of topic. He shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable, but to Anduin's relief, he pushed on with the discussion. "How much word did you get?"

"The bare bones," Anduin said, frowning. "High King Terenas is?"

"Dead," Varian confirmed. "Killed by his own renegade son."

Anduin caught the venom in his words and made private note of it. "I don't believe it."

"Neither did I," Varian said. He linked his fingers under his nose, fixed on that window again. "Five months later, and, here we are."

"What about Solitude?"

"Calia was crowned queen shortly after Arthas fled the city," Varian said. "She's been doing her best, and she has the Legion's support."

Anduin nodded. Calia would be a good ruler, he knew, and he knew just as well she'd do what she thought was necessary to protect her hold. Even if her enemy was her own younger brother. "Where is he now? Arthas?"

"Hiding," Varian scoffed. "Holed up in Windhelm, I'm told."

"With King Kel'thuzad?" Anduin gapped. "I'm shocked. I never expected them to... get along."

Varian shrugged. "In any case, the Crusade considers him as much of an enemy as Arthas himself."

Anduin's frown deepened and he nodded again. "What of the other holds?"

"Falkreath is with the Crusade," Varian said, "as are Hjaalmarch and the Pale. The Reach and Rift are with Arthas. Gods only know why."

"Queen Moira?" Anduin said. "And Queen Tyrande?"

"The Bronzebeards have been in a tiff with the Empire for years." Varian said, and sighed. He sounded tired. "As for Tyrande, she's not too keen on the Crusade barging in."

Anduin sat back some, absorbing the information. That, he could sympathize with. A thought occurred to him. "What about Winterhold?" he asked, meeting Varian's face again.

"Winterhold wants nothing to do with it." He laughed once, insincerely. "They've practically walled themselves off from the rest of the world. Typical Genn."

Anduin smiled momentarily, recalling his brief encounters with the reclusive King of Winterhold during his time studying there. He felt Genn Greymane only tolerated him, and he wasn't sure if it was the resentment for Varian or for his own mage college that spurred his annoyance with the prince. Either way, Anduin was fairly certain he'd made it to the king's good side once or twice, if just for a moment when a joke or compliment lingered. His friendships with Genn's children surely helped.

"And Whiterun?" he asked.

Varian's face hardened. He sighed and sat forward, perching his elbows on his knees. "Frankly, I don't want anything to do with it either."

Anduin was surprised by the answer, but wondered if he should be. Maybe he'd missed something, when he'd half-expected his father to be among the first kings to hand their blades to the Empire in exchange for Arthas Menethil's head. It did assume Varian was more capable of forgetting old friendships than perhaps he truly was. And, perhaps Anduin had gotten through to him more than he'd thought, after so many arguments about his studies. Anduin was reminded of the delicacy this topic needed to be treated with.

"Do you know why?" he asked.

Varian looked at him, working out the question. "Why he killed Terenas?"

Anduin gave a slow nod.

"Arthas was never secretive about his dislike for the Thalmor," Varian said, grimly. Anduin watched him go through memories, looking for some kind of hint, like he should've known. "And Terenas wouldn't budge on the issue. You know all this."

Anduin nodded again, but his face was twisting from confusion to resignation. "Arthas killed him for that?"

"He killed Terenas because he was weak," Varian said, sighed and buried his face in his hands. "That's what he says, anyway. In order for Skyrim to move on, and cast Sunstrider out, Terenas needed to be dethroned, so Arthas challenged him and won."

"That's what he says," Anduin said, uncertain, but he held just as little confidence in whatever the Crusade claimed. Solitude, however, he had faith in. "What does Calia say?"

"She won't discuss it," Varian scoffed. "Probably because the Crusade told her not to."

He sounded frustrated with her. Anduin glanced down, thinking. Before all of this, Anduin had felt like he had a clearer grasp on where he stood. Arthas was brash, certainly, but after the Great War—after what the Argent Crusade _did_ —Anduin didn't blame him and would have defended the man's anger. Arthas's enemy had remained the Thalmor more than the Crusade, though, as far as he and Anduin had ever discussed it. Anduin was frustrated with Terenas too—so was Calia, so was a great deal of Skyrim—but to kill him in his own city, as Anduin had heard?

This was not the Arthas whom Anduin had grown up knowing. "Something isn't right about this."

Varian glanced up at him, and for a moment Anduin saw a glimpse of something in his father's eyes. Grief? Hope? Whatever it was, it vanished when Varian braced it in again.

"No," he agreed. "But he's too far gone, that much is obvious. Too many people have died to him and his followers. I don't see any redemption in his future."

Anduin caught the sadness that time, and he didn't know what to say. The prince didn't believe that, but he wasn't sure where such strong resistance to the idea was coming from. He wanted to be confident it wasn't true, that Arthas _could_ somehow be reached. Certainly, he couldn't get away with what he'd done, but he didn't need to be given up on either. Anduin had to believe that somewhere was his father's friend.

But what if that was just blind optimism in the face of otherwise losing that friend? Did that corrupt his ability to really see the situation as it was? Did it matter?

"I do," he said. Varian looked surprised. "You do too, or you'd have sided with the Crusade already."

He laughed, doubting. "Anduin—"

"I don't know if we're right or wrong," he said, "but we do believe he can be reasoned with. This war was started with blood—and Arthas needs to be held accountable for that—but maybe it doesn't have to be ended that way."

Varian stared, until some wave of comfort found him and, through a small smile, he sighed. "Enough of that," he said, slumping back in his chair. "Tell me more about Cyrodiil. It's been years since I've seen it."

They discussed the Imperial City and perhaps a dozen other things for some hours, until the last of the sunset was long gone and only the moons cast any light through the window. Anduin hadn't been wrong about his father's exhaustion. At some point, the prince had simply resigned to talking more to himself than to Varian, as his father slowly drifted to sleep in his seat, because any attempt to suggest he might turn in for the night was met with forced alertness and urges for Anduin to continue on about, "the, um, that thing, the uh, you know." Eventually, the sleep won out, and once Anduin heard the first deep snore, he knew he could stop humoring the stubborn king and perhaps return to drawing.

He fished his pen out of the blankets and gently crossed his legs, a gesture he was still getting used to achieving after the amputation. He drew, for however long, and eventually found himself with his back against the headboard, his left leg pulled up as a makeshift desk for the sketchbook. His own sleepiness snuck in not long after, and surrendering, Anduin laid the sketchbook down on his stomach and closed his eyes.

His mind drifted away, back to the hallucinations or visions or whatever they'd been. They were tolerable as dreams, but the longer he dealt with glimpses of reality faltering at the seams in the light of day, the more concerned he got. There was an underlying problem, he knew, he just didn't know much more than that. His eyebrows pinched together as those words came back to him.

_"If you hand me the stone, I could remind myself."_

He remembered, now, where he'd heard them before. Wrathion had said it in Riverwood, regarding the dragonstone. Anduin didn't know what it was, theories aside, but something gnawed away at him about it. It was important enough that the draugr had pursued him all through Bleak Falls to recover it, and important enough that Wrathion had to be argued out of taking it with him.

Anduin frowned at the ceiling. He knew Katrana was well-versed in dragon lore—he'd pestered her enough times out of sheer curiosity—but something about her having the dragonstone didn't sit well in his stomach. He sighed and ran his hands over his face. Whatever it was, the Dragonborn should've had it, and he worried Katrana's interest in it blinded her from that. He wanted to talk to her—maybe she would listen to him. Maybe they could even work together to figure out what it was, and bring that information to Wrathion too?

Something heavy weighed on his chest. Somehow, he already knew Katrana would be hesitant to part with the dragonstone, or any information about it. She liked knowing things. She liked being the only one who knew things. But if he could convince her to share, maybe _he_ could get the information to Wrathion.

Anduin frowned even harder. But how was he supposed to do that?

A nightmarish golden glare pierced through his hands and shut eyes, and shocked, Anduin jolted into a sit. His sketchbook dropped into his lap, as he blinked away the pain and blurs in his vision, as if the fiery gaze really had bore into his eyes. Where had he seen that glare before?

He forced a slow exhale, easing the rush of adrenaline away, and when he looked down, the pages had fallen to his sketch of the Gildergreen.

———Hearth Fire 19th———

High Hrothgar was as robust and hallowed as any story Wrathion had heard. The architecture must have been _ancient,_ yet withstood the mountain's vicious winds even after so many centuries. Though, the engravings and decorations of dragons that littered the walls and columns made him uniquely uneasy. After so much time in such old nordic ruins, he was of course used to such designs. But seeing even the handful of Tongues in High Hrothgar actively choose to live among them was unsettling to him, if only just. Perhaps he just really hated dragons.

At least the miniscule number of Tongues didn't surprise him. He'd only seen three so far: Rhonin, as he'd introduced himself; an old man who much more accurately fit Wrathion's idea of a member of the Kirin Tor; and a blonde woman who, once again, contradicted it.

"Hm," Wrathion said. "The esteemed High Hrothgar. How fascinating."

"'Fascinating'," Rhonin echoed, sparing Wrathion an amused glance. "That's one way to put it."

"You speak," Wrathion said. "I was under the impression the Kirin Tor don't."

"Typically, you'd be right," Rhonin said, and nodded at the elderly Tongue Wrathion had noted earlier. "Belleford, here, has a Voice so powerful, even just a whisper of it could kill a man."

"Tuh!" Wrathion scoffed, grinning. "You're sure about that?"

Rhonin smirked and nodded at Belleford. "Say hello."

Belleford glanced at the other Tongue, a glimmer of worry in his eye, but lowered his head and spoke in a soft, rasped greeting. "Dovahkiin."

As if the weight of the word alone weren't enough to convince Wrathion, the whole of the monastery, if not the entire mountain itself, shuddered at its power. Wrathion stumbled, and was only kept from collapsing by Right's catch. With the grin wiped clear off his face, Wrathion straightened himself and puffed, almost resembling a bird with the way he held himself. Rhonin simply laughed, and Belleford quietly put some distance between him and Wrathion so he would not be called to speak again.

"Impressive," Wrathion admitted, as he righted his leather. He looked at Rhonin. "You summoned me here for a reason, I'm sure."

Rhonin smiled at him and stepped closer. The impulse to move back shot to Wrathion's feet, but he resisted it outright, until Rhonin was standing close enough that Wrathion had to crane his head back to meet his eyes. He glanced the Dragonborn up and down, then spoke.

" **Laas.** "

The Shout, only whispered, brushed almost _through_ Wrathion. He'd never felt it used on him before, but something about Rhonin staring into the heart of his life force was unnerving. Rhonin, at least, looked pleased with the effort.

"Two dragons are dead," he said, "yet their souls remain with us."

Wrathion winced and shook himself out some, hoping to distill the sense of being watched. It didn't help. "I devoured them," he said.

"So it appears," Rhonin said. He stepped back, and at the same time, the uncomfortable feeling left Wrathion, to his relief. "But I'd like to test one more thing before I say for sure."

"You're _testing_ me?" Wrathion hissed. It was a stupid complaint to make; he'd known for years the Kirin Tor were very strict about who they let into High Hrothgar, let alone who they would recognize as Dragonborn.

"Shout at me," Rhonin said.

Wrathion froze. "Excuse me?"

"Shout," Rhonin said again. "You must know some words of power, mustn't you? I'd be impressed if you defeated those dragons without."

"Of course I do, but—you said it yourself. The Voice is—" he glanced at Belleford, "— _very_ powerful."

"I can take it," Rhonin said. "Trust me. Now Shout, Dovahkiin."

Wrathion shut his mouth, scowling at the Tongue. He wanted to sap their knowledge from them, not very possibly rip them to shreds. 'He could take it', he said—how did tempering one's _Voice_ protect him from bodily harm? But he sighed and relented.

"Just remember," he said, and breathed in, summoning the force of his Voice. "You asked for it."

Rhonin smirked as Wrathion gathered the last of his power. Once it spun violently in his chest, he spoke.

" **Fus!** "

The impact staggered Rhonin. The other two Tongues tensed, concerned, but even as Rhonin hunched and spat up the blood that had resulted from the Shout slicing his lip, he just laughed.

"Incredible," he said with a grin that revealed teeth as reddened as his hair. "That word alone should have taken you years to master."

Wrathion smirked, standing taller. "It was instant," he said.

"I know it was," Rhonin said with a trace of admiration, wiping the blood on his chin with a sleeve. "One of those dragon souls had knowledge of it. That's how you conquered it, isn't it?"

Wrathion offered an affirming hum. _Finally,_ he was among people who understood _just_ how incredible the Voice was. If only they'd come down from their mountain. The dragon crisis would be history in a fortnight.

"I'm curious to recreate your process. How you learn words, and how you learn to use them." Rhonin said. He grinned. "But that will take time, won't it? Hopefully, you plan to stay."

"Well I'm," he paused, considering his choice of words, " _eager_ to learn—Rhonin, wasn't it? Better now than later."

Rhonin's eyes glimmered with some kind of knowing. Wrathion wondered how many aspiring Tongues he'd seen too much excitement in for his liking—he was certain, after all, that it was Wrathion's unspoken impatience to return to Skyrim that had the Tongue giving him that knowledgeable look. If it were up to the Kirin Tor, he'd stay here and become one of them. Unfortunately for them, Wrathion didn't take orders from nords.

"Your destiny is your own," Rhonin said. "You will do with it what you will. The Kirin Tor open their halls to you, and we will teach you to whatever degree _you_ allow us to. But, Dragonborn or not, you will need to lend us time."

"Forgive me for suspecting there isn't much of that to spare," Wrathion said.

Rhonin smiled keenly. "Stay. See how much time you can make for the pursuit of true knowledge. I have a feeling you'll be surprised with the answer."

"I hope you don't mean your Way."

"Oh, I do," Rhonin said. "You won't find complete enlightenment without the Way. But, I forget just who you are. Your presence in Skyrim alone is evidence of a True Need, and for that reason, the Kirin Tor would be hard-pressed to turn a blind eye to you."

Somehow, that answer surprised him. "Are you suggesting I could use my Voice in the 'least of its ways', and you might let me back into your monastery?"

"Ah, Dovahkiin," Rhonin laughed as though it were a silly question. "You already have. We heard your Shouts in Riften, south of Ivarstead... Had any Tongue of the Kirin Tor been caught making such racket, well, they would be a Tongue of the Kirin Tor no longer."

Wrathion blinked and tilted his head down some, eyeing Rhonin. "But because I'm Dragonborn—"

"Then your commotion is justified by a True Need," Rhonin said. "Yes. I realize the hypocrisy of it all, but that is the Way of the Voice, and that Way would not exist if I forbade you from doing the work of the Divines. Surely, if they can forgive you, so can we."

Wrathion stared for a long moment, and finally just offered an interested hum. Fascinating. He shrugged. "Well, that certainly makes our disagreements all the more manageable. Perhaps we will get along after all, Rhonin."

Rhonin grinned at him. "I'm glad you—"

The monastery shuddered, not unlike when Belleford had spoken. Wrathion stumbled, and Right moved close to guard him, a hand on her weapon, but Wrathion noticed the Kirin Tor were no more than a little surprised by the quake.

" **Sahqoom.** "

Wrathion's blood froze. That was a Shout, and unlike the voices that had summoned him to Hrothgar, this one was _not_ mortal.

"Ah," Rhonin said as he eyed the trembling ceiling, dusting off his robes. "Forgive me, Dovahkiin, but I must—"

"What was that?" Wrathion's voice shook, just slightly, as if it too was disturbed by the Shout.

Rhonin glanced at him. "Hm? It was a summons."

" _'Summons'?_ "

"From our leader," Rhonin said, squinting.

Wrathion laughed, utterly disbelieving. "Did you even _hear_ it? It sounded like—like—"

"Rhonin," the blonde Tongue started, stepping closer.

"Have you _ever_ heard a dragon, Rhonin?" Wrathion snapped.

He'd expected Rhonin's face to harden or pale or something, but the Tongue only gave a hearty laugh. "I assure you, it's only the Laas Groniik calling me to the summit, where she meditates."

Who in Oblivion was the _Life Binder?_ "I've heard enough dragons speak to know what they sound like. That was no mortal voice."

Rhonin just smirked. "There's nothing to fear, Dovahkiin. But unfortunately, I must answer her summons. Jaina."

The same Tongue from before, Jaina, glanced at Rhonin. Wrathion spared her a momentary look before returning his attention to Rhonin when he continued.

"You can take care of our friend while I'm gone, can't you?"

Jaina nodded. "Of course. What could the Laas Groniik want right now? She must know the Dragonborn's arrived."

Wrathion was half-surprised to hear her speak so freely. Apparently she, like Rhonin, had impeccable control of her Voice, even after so many years dedicated to its study. He'd almost say their ability to speak above whispers was a sign of inexperience, not great control, but he'd heard in Jaina's Voice, when she mentioned their Life Binder, what he'd heard in Rhonin's outside. The power to shape worlds. He found himself envious of all the years they'd had to study, and angry that they wouldn't leave their precious Throat of the World to _utilize_ it. Here was a temple of Tongues powerful enough to cast the dragons back into extinction, but they were stopped only by their ridiculous Way. It was _maddening._

"I'll find out when I get there," Rhonin said, answering Jaina. He glanced at Wrathion. "Forgive me, but this is surely important. I'll return soon—a couple of days, at most."

"A couple _days?_ " Wrathion repeated.

"The journey to the Throat of the World is not a simple one. The Seven Thousand Steps are the easy part," Rhonin said with a laugh. Wrathion just winced. "Good luck, Dragonborn. I hope we meet again before destiny calls you away."

With that, Rhonin swept away from the main chamber, toward two great doorways on the back wall of the monastery. Wrathion watched him with narrowed eyes. He remained unsure of the Tongue's claim that this Life Binder of his was of no danger. He was _certain_ that Voice had been draconic. He shot a glance at Right, who picked up his meaning with remarkable time and made herself scarce. Satisfied, Wrathion put on a pleasant face and approached the Tongue Rhonin had entrusted with his studies.

"Jaina," Wrathion greeted.

Jaina, who had been lost in thought, turned to him with a bit of alarm, followed by an embarrassed smile and a brief bow. "It's an honor, Dragonborn."

At least the constant flow of recognition was welcome. "I'm to understand I might learn a lot here?"

"As much as you're willing to," Jaina said. "You sounded eager earlier. I'd offer a place to rest, but perhaps you'd like to get started right away instead?"

Wrathion resisted most of a grin. He spared a glance to his right, where his agent had vanished. Good. He faced the Tongue again. "I like the way you think, Jaina."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [dragon translations](http://textuploader.com/5v6jz).
> 
> it's been a little while!!! sorry about that. but today (march 2nd) marks the fanfic's one-year birthday! i figure i gotta celebrate that somehow, and while the standard procedure seems to be long gushy author comments (which are inbound, because you know i talk a lot), i think also i'd like to post a pile of chapters today. like i did a year ago, when i kicked this thing off with three chapters. in fact, let's do that again.
> 
> today being the fanfic's birthday ALSO means i've been writing it for about a year and a half, which is absurd to me, i don't think i've ever spent that much time on any one writing project in my life. that's really cool to me.
> 
> what's cooler is all the really kind support i've gotten on this fic! i mean, if you were with me on tumblr a year and a half ago, you'd know i didn't post a lot of my writing, really, and that even though i'd been writing this for months and WANTED to share it, i was _downright terrified_ to. the short of it is my self-esteem was exactly nonexistent and i didn't feel like this fic, or anything i wrote, or my own damn self was worth the time of day.
> 
> i've gotten a lot better on all fronts in the past year, and a huge part of that was from the support of friends interested in seeing me start publishing this and all the kind words, kudos, bookmarks, hits, you name it that i've received since doing so! you can see in my earliest author's comments how bad my anxiety about posting these chapters was, and now it's not _perfect,_ but it's soooooo so so so much better.
> 
> and i really owe a lot of that sense of worth to you guys? sometimes it's just really nice to hear positive self-talk from someone else. or lots of someone elses. which doesn't really make it 'self'-talk anymore, but, you know. so, thank you so, so much. i'm glad i can give something back to all the people who helped me through one of the worst periods of my life.
> 
> i owe you guys the world. hopefully a mash-up of two fictional ones will continue to suffice!


	25. Ferviit Mal Kiir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **content warnings:** lots of amputation babble, flashbacks/hallucinations  & decapitation (kind of)
> 
> note the timeskip!

Chapter 25: Ferviit Mal Kiir  
"Nosy Little Children"

———Frost Fall 29th———

Anduin wasn't sure how long he'd been awake. He wasn't even sure if he'd been asleep in the first place. It was all a bit of a moot point, because his leg was _killing_ him.

Or rather, the space that was _supposed_ to be his leg. The space that was, of course, empty now, because the leg was gone, and had been for, what—a month? And yet it still hurt like it was really there and really _on fire._

Anduin shut his eyes, willing the pain away. It was all he could do. There were no muscles to massage and no medications that could numb phantom sensations. But bargaining for nerves that didn't exist anymore to stop firing off wasn't any more successful, even if he sometimes thought it made him feel better. He groaned and threw an arm over his eyes. Maybe it'd stop eventually.

The imaginary pain instead surged, and because it already hurt so much, it was honestly just more annoying than excruciating. He considered yelling at the leg, but resigned to rolling his eyes instead. He moved his arm to rub his face in a hand. It was always worse when he was trying to sleep. Which seemed pretty pointless now—the sun had been up for hours. It was probably a perfectly decent time to be waking up. Anduin wouldn't mind, except he felt like he hadn't slept so much as deeply spaced out for random intervals through the night.

He searched himself for the resolve to close his eyes and try again, because he was exhausted and no one was going to be dragging him out of bed for a while—not in his condition. But he decided against it and rolled onto his right elbow, grasping around past the edge of the bed until he caught leather. He sat himself up and pulled the prosthetic leg out of its place by his bedside. It wasn't the final one—he was informed there wasn't truly such a _thing_ as a final prosthesis. Even a detailed, finished one would need to be replaced in just a few years, and not just in the case of damage. This one, however, was especially temporary; designed to be easily adjustable while his residual limb was prone to rapid change in shape or size.

Anduin had already felt such abrupt changes firsthand. Sometimes it only took half a day for the prosthesis to feel uncomfortable and require an adjustment. It was frustrating, but being able to actually walk again was well worth it, even if it was with a limp and a crutch. Anything to stand on his feet again. At least he'd already gotten the hang of strapping the thing into place, and even found a good technique for easily putting pants on over it, which would be particularly useful in the oncoming winter. He shifted the foot around on the floor, feeling for his leg's placement in the socket, and after adding another sock for a snugger fit, snatched his cane and stood.

He didn't have much practice yet, having only received the leg in the last week, but the fact he could get around Dragonsreach was freeing. And the distractions of wandering around the palace and simply _doing things_ were usually why that phantom pain didn't bother him during the day.

Which brought up the issue of _what_ he should do. He certainly wasn't short of things, both responsibilities to Whiterun and priorities of his own. He very much wanted to go to the Temple of Kynareth and see what good he could do there—and, perhaps, find out more about the fate of the Gildergreen. It hadn't stopped bothering him since his return home. It also seemed he'd solved the last of his internal concerns regarding the dragonstone, as he hadn't been pestered by any Dragonborn ghosts in weeks.

Perhaps that's what he'd do. He hadn't gone to see Lady Katrana ever since Bolvar told him she had the dragonstone, even once he was mobile again. He wasn't quite sure why he'd put it off; doing so only seemed to ignite an anxious flame in the pit of his stomach, yet seeking her out was asking quite a bit of courage from him. Perhaps it was just some inexplicable confusion in his mind. He was sure he'd sort it out by the time he was done speaking with her.

Taking care to remember his leg and cane, Anduin departed from his room to Katrana's study. Guards spared him lingering looks, most stuck between unsure smiles and trying not to blatantly check the state of his leg. He wasn't sure if they'd get used to it before it drove him up the walls, but, he tried to ignore it. They meant well, didn't they?

He wasn't sure how many times he'd have to wander around Dragonsreach before he truly felt at home again. It _was_ his home, surely, but after so long, it almost seemed unreal. He found himself worrying it'd simply disappear at any moment, though he wondered if his hallucinations or visions or whatever he should call them might've played a part in that fear. They did, after all, have a habit of making things appear and disappear with no warning. He slipped through a lumbering door into the edge of the war room, sparing a glance over the space, but he startled and ducked back behind the door.

His father was at the table, where he usually oversaw documents of all kinds. Today, a map was strewn out in front of him, dotted with red and blue flags. Anduin hardly had to look to see they were stuck in each hold's capital city and notable, smaller towns. They seemed to mark fortresses, too. All except Whiterun. It must've been regarding the civil war, and nothing supported that theory better than the Argent Crusader standing on the other side of the table; the reason Anduin had shied back in the first place.

He was surprised, actually. Varian had made it clear on several occasions now that he refused to cooperate with the Empire, yet he seemed to be discussing _something_ with the Crusader. Anduin wasn't sure, as they spoke softly and the room swallowed such quiet sounds well. Had Solitude sent the soldier? Why did Varian accept him into his war room? The Crusader aggressively circled Whiterun in blue ink and, almost soundlessly, growled something at Varian. Anduin felt his chest clench. What did that mean?

He decided he could ask his father later and slipped past, disappearing into the nearby hall before the door could clatter shut. If the pair at the table had noticed, they didn't investigate who had come through, which allowed Anduin to hobble down into the throne room. Stairs, he felt, would be the bane of him for quite the time to come—but then, he'd already thought as much in Bleak Falls. At least now, Katrana's study was one long, flat room away. That sense of worry crept in again, as he came close to the study, but he swallowed it back and, with a surge of courage, sealed his fate.

"Lady Katrana?" he called as he turned into the room. "Are you—oh."

He stopped then, in the doorway, as a woman he didn't recognize straightened from a table of reagents she'd been handling moments before. Her robes immediately gave her away as a mage—a student, easily—and while Anduin didn't know her, she, to his foolish surprise, seemed to recognize him.

"You're—" she blurted out, then corrected herself and gave a prompt bow. "Prince Anduin. You're looking for Master Katrana?"

 _Master?_ That was new. Anduin composed himself. "Yes, I was. I'm sorry, I don't think we've met?"

"Sloan McCoy, your highness," the woman said. "I'm an apprentice of Master Katrana."

That was definitely new. He smiled. "I didn't realize Lady Katrana was looking for an apprentice."

"It's a relatively new arrangement," Sloan said, and gave a light shrug with one shoulder. "In light of the recent dragon crisis."

Oh. That made sense. He'd already known Katrana was busy investigating the dragon phenomenon ever since Helgen. An apprentice would certainly benefit from studying under her wing, and, he supposed Katrana would benefit from an extra set of hands.

"Well, I hope I'm not late in welcoming you to Dragonsreach," he said.

"Thank you, your highness," Sloan said, then gestured toward the smaller office behind the main chamber of the study. "You wanted to speak to Master Katrana?"

"Yes, if she isn't busy."

Sloan nodded and disappeared into the office. Anduin could hear her speaking quietly, presumably to Katrana, and chose to drift toward the bookshelf while he waited. Katrana's arsenal of books was always fascinating, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd come in here and failed to leave with something he'd begged to borrow. He traced a finger over the spines, noting ones he'd read before and ones that sounded interesting now. He stopped on one, mostly caked in dust, but there were aged smudges that suggested it'd been moved recently. Smearing dirt off the title, which denoted it as some novel about a thief, Anduin plucked the book off the shelf and peeled open the first pages to skim through them.

It was a slow if interesting start, as the thief crept through a rather decorated home for some desirable item he had his eye on. What he wound up with, instead, was a mysterious egg and a fine wine that he shared with his roguish colleagues elsewhere. Anduin smiled and moved on several dozen pages, curious of the story's direction, when the pages turned hollow in the center, and a golden thing nearly dropped to the floor, had Anduin not awkwardly squished the book to his chest to trap the item inside. He glanced behind him to make sure no one had overseen the event, then carefully pried the book back to stop the item from falling out.

He squinted and held it up in his hand. It was some metallic thing, bulbous but disk-shaped. He'd never seen anything like it, although the metal _was_ a bit familiar. Turning it about in his hand, he didn't gain much insight, but there was a small door on the front. When he popped it open, though, there was just a dim soul gem lodged inside. Which was weird, of course, because he'd never exactly seen Conjuration magic coupled with what appeared to be some kind of technology. Anduin tapped the gem with his thumb. Nothing happened. Why did Katrana have this tucked in a hollowed out hole in a book?

He heard chair feet scratch across the floor and nearly dropped the book a second time, quickly reassembling the secret and stuffing it back into the shelf, then turned toward the office door as Katrana arrived. She smiled at Anduin, and it didn't _seem_ to be the sharp knowing one that would later lead to a smooth confession that she'd seen him snooping around. Hopefully his own incompetence when it came to lying wouldn't give him away.

"Prince Anduin," Katrana greeted. "It's good to see you wandering around Dragonsreach."

"It's good to be home," Anduin said. He glanced at Sloan as she skirted past Katrana, disappearing out of the study. "You have an apprentice," he said once she was gone.

"Yes, Sloan," Katrana said. "She's interested in Illusion, which isn't quite my strongest branch, but you take what you can get at a stage like hers."

"You'd make a fine teacher regardless of branch," Anduin said. "Congratulations, Lady Katrana."

"Please," she said, moving toward her table on the back wall, "Sloan said you wanted to speak to me?"

"I do," Anduin said, glancing over the table. "About that artifact I found in Bleak Falls."

Katrana glanced at him. "The dragonstone, your highness?"

Anduin nodded. "Bolvar said he gave it to you. You wanted to study it?"

"Yes," Katrana said. "These strange dragon appearances have led to something of an adjustment in Whiterun's priorities. I suppose all those years of curiosity paid off, didn't they?"

Anduin smiled. "We're lucky to have you."

"You're too kind, your highness," Katrana said.

"You're going to send it to the Dragonborn when you're done with it, right?"

He hadn't tried to hide the rhetorical tone of the question—in part because he wouldn't have been able to. She paused and looked at him again, for a moment saying nothing at all. He wasn't sure what reaction he was hoping for, but found it wasn't that, and worried.

He only held his smile. "Bolvar said."

She smiled slightly back at him. "Yes, that was our agreement."

"Have you learned anything?" Anduin asked.

She hummed, looking elsewhere. He almost wondered where, until she took something from the back table and approached the one barring her from him. What she set down between them was the dragonstone. "Some. At least, enough to articulate theories with."

"What kind of theories?"

Katrana craned her head from one shoulder to the other, thinking about her reply. "I'm not quite convinced dead dragons stay dead."

"Really?" Anduin said. He was interested in a theory like that, after his conversation with Wrathion in Riverwood. "Do you think..."

He paused, despite Katrana's curious stare silently spurring him on. "You seem hopeful, your highness."

"It's just," he bit his cheek, considering. "I saw something in Bleak Falls."

It was Katrana's turn to spark with interest. "Did you?"

"The other dragon," he said, "Deathwing said something, _Shouted_ something, and it just... appeared. It crawled out of the ground."

The corners of Katrana's lips perked in a small, enthused smile. "Does that sound like necromancy to you too, Prince Anduin?"

He hesitated, then nodded. "And the phrase on that stone..."

Katrana hummed. "It could easily be referring to resurrection," she said. She traced her fingers over the patterned side of the stone. Anduin winced at the dragon face engraved there. "They say dragons loathe and fear Dragonborn because of their ability to devour a dragon's soul, thus destroying that dragon's immortality."

Anduin glanced at her. Could that be why Deathwing fled? Was he fearful enough for his survival that he would rather retreat than risk Wrathion eating his soul?

"If Deathwing really did resurrect the second dragon from death, that story holds more water, doesn't it?" Katrana said. She laughed once and cupped her chin, eyeing the ceiling with thought. "Death can be undone for dragons in ways it can't for mortalkind. A dead dragon is not truly dead, so long as no Dragonborn is there to make it so."

Something about the way she said that bothered him, but he couldn't place why. He tried to shake the feeling. "How can you kill something that doesn't really die?"

"You can't," Katrana said. "If dragons can outsmart death itself, through some magic mortalkind can't utilize, then they will always remain."

"Unless the Dragonborn takes their souls."

Katrana frowned. "Yes, I suppose," she said, quietly, then came out of something and shook her head. "Yes," she said faster, waving her hand dismissively. "But it would be quite the challenge for the Dragonborn to devour _every_ dragon soul that plagued Skyrim. They're returning faster than he can kill them."

Something in him unwound. "So there must be another way."

She smirked falsely. "That's optimistic, my prince."

"What if..." He paused again. Katrana eyed him, and he pushed on. "What if they could be reasoned with? Do you think that's possible?"

She blinked at him, surprised by the question. "You want to negotiate with dragons, Prince Anduin?"

"If we can," he said. "Maybe I'm mistaken, but I always got the feeling you didn't think dragons were _inherently_ evil."

"They're not," she said, "that's true. They have a drive for control, yes, but they are masters of the world. It's only natural. Their wickedness, though, is the product of mortalkind's fear."

"Then maybe it wouldn't have to be an issue, their immortality. Not if we could reach an understanding."

She smiled again, but even with its glow he felt something was off about it. "You have a tender heart, my prince."

The compliment threw him off the topic at hand, embarrassing him some and forcing him to glance elsewhere. "I just want what's best for Skyrim. And, I'd prefer an entire species didn't have to die in the process. Twice."

"Death is inevitable, unfortunately," she said. "But, if enough of mortalkind could be convinced to see things as you do, perhaps it only has to be some death."

His jaw shifted, and he looked back at her again. "You say they fear Dragonborn because of their power. Maybe, if Wrathion were willing to attempt a truce, that fear could be mitigated?"

Something flickered in her eye, sharp enough that Anduin felt the urge to shrink back, as though he'd said something wrong and might be reprimanded for it. Instead, Katrana retrieved the dragonstone from the table and turned away, distracting herself with it. The room felt just a bit colder.

"Perhaps," she answered, tracing patterns on the dragonstone. "But only if he were willing."

"He—" Well, maybe Anduin couldn't say it with certainty, but he did believe Wrathion could be convinced. If it could bring peace and safety to Tamriel, he couldn't say no, could he? Was it foolish on Anduin's part to believe Wrathion would put that above his hatred for dragons? "He could. I _think_ he could."

She smiled falsely. "As I said, my prince: you are optimistic."

"I think—" The words stuck in his throat, and he didn't know why, but he pushed them free regardless. "I think you should make sure that artifact gets to him soon though."

There was that sharp look again—the one that made the air painful to breathe. He had seen that look before. A long time ago, and he didn't know where or why, but the memory twisted and turned in the pit of his stomach. It was worse than the ones she'd pass Bolvar and Velen when she thought no one was looking. And it was genuine in a way her smiles weren't. It was real where her words were false.

"When I am through with it," she said slowly, and he swore there was an underlying warning, "I will make sure it finds its way to him."

That was a lie. He had no doubt in his mind that was a blatant lie. She didn't like the Dragonborn. The topic of him annoyed her in some way beyond how Bolvar and Velen did. Anduin had seen her hate someone this much before. He just didn't remember who.

She wasn't going to send Wrathion the dragonstone. Katrana didn't cooperate with people she hated this much. Katrana _sabotaged_ people she hated this much. And that frightened Anduin for reasons he couldn't remember the origin of.

He said nothing else. He only watched her fidget with the dragonstone for a while longer, that cold air in the room lingering, putting the same urge to stay away from the study back into the pit of his chest. He became aware of the pounding in his ears, as though his heart had climbed into his throat. His shoulders felt heavy and his mouth felt dry. For a moment, he thought of that nightmare from weeks ago, where he'd bore leathery wings and smoking breath.

"Kulaan?"

He flinched, and his stare, having drifted elsewhere, sharpened on Katrana. For one terrifying moment, her eyes seemed to glow. Then he blinked and it was gone. His mouth moved to say something, anything, but the words hid in the bottom of his stomach.

Katrana saw, though, that he was attentive. "I asked if you were looking for a book to take with you."

Anduin blinked again, confused for one long moment, until the rest of his surroundings settled back into place and the words came free in a tumble. "Oh—no, I—well..."

She smiled at him and set the dragonstone on the table. "Don't be so nervous. Take whatever you like."

He nodded and turned to the bookshelf, struggling not to panic himself as he searched for one of the books he'd been interested in before. He tried not to even look at the one with the hollow middle, and instead left the collection with one about the history of the Winterhold College. He forced a strained smile at Katrana, one he hoped she'd continue to mistake for fluster.

"Is that all?" she asked. "I do have work to get back to."

"Yes," Anduin managed, if a bit tensely. "I'm sorry for keeping you."

"Nonsense. Kynareth watch you, Prince Anduin."

Anduin smiled again and gave a quick bow of his head. "And you, Lady Katrana." He turned to go after that, but paused, to Katrana's brief curiosity. "Did you..."

She knew it was the word he was asking about, but feigned ignorance. "Your highness?"

He decided he didn't want to know the answer, as he shook his head. "Nothing. Thank you."

The court wizard watched him leave, with a book tucked under his arm and a heavy limp on his right side. She smiled until he was gone, then approached her bookcase. She heard Sloan return behind her, tidying the dragonstone back to its place on the back wall. Katrana plucked a dusty book covered in fresh smears from the shelf and frowned.

"Nosy little boy..."

"Something wrong, Master Katrana?"

Katrana tilted her head toward Sloan, though didn't look away from the book in her hands. "Nothing, dear. I'm just worried about Prince Anduin."

"For what reason?"

"He's a bit hung up on the dragonstone he found," she said idly, flipping through the beginning pages of her book, though taking care not to expose the hidden cavity. "And he _is_ his father's son. Perhaps, instead of heeding his lessons learned in Bleak Falls, he might wish to intervene."

Sloan seemed surprised by this. "You don't really think so?"

Katrana shut the book and returned it to its place on the shelf. "Keep an eye on him for me, wouldn't you? I'd hate for something to," she paused to consider her wording, " _befall_ him."

Sloan knew what the court wizard meant by that. She lowered her head in a nod. "Of course, Master."

"Good," Katrana said, moving back toward her office.

"Master Katrana," Sloan said, turning to the court wizard, who stopped to hear her out. "I was wondering about the word 'kulaan'—isn't that draconic? It meant..." She made a face, struggling to recall.

"Oh, that," Katrana smirked, remembering an old conversation with Velen. "I was just testing a theory of mine. You just keep our dear prince out of trouble, hm?"

Sloan hesitated, then nodded again. "Yes, Master."

As Anduin had left the study, he'd wanted nothing more than to return to his room and had only barely remembered that the war room was occupied by more company he was suddenly not in any position to deal with. So instead he crossed the length of the throne room, with the sense of frightening gold eyes boring into him, and disappeared into the kitchen, which would be a longer route back to his room, not to mention full of several more staircases, but he'd deal with those when he got to them. For now, he was perfectly content slumping against a wall in the lower levels of Dragonsreach, where the food was stored and the servants slept.

His heart had never descended from his throat. His entire body ached, his leg and chest most of all, and his mind rung unendingly with that word. Every inch of him was certain he'd heard it, shrouded in that serpentine voice from his dream in Riverwood, but he didn't want to believe it and, frankly, couldn't think of any reason why Katrana would _say_ it. He'd only told the Dragonborn anything implying it bothered him, although that had been in the throes of shock and panic and he really hadn't meant to.

Would Katrana have turned similarly regretful, if she had said it and Anduin expressed the same aversion as he had with Wrathion?

He shook his head. Why was he _thinking_ about this? Katrana _hadn't_ said it, firstly—it was surely just his mind playing more tricks on him. Obviously, it had a habit of that lately. But he couldn't shake the feeling. A lingering apprehension of Katrana, one that had manifested before he even entered the study, that urged him to stay away. _Why?_

But he knew why. Anduin had figured it out in the study. He didn't believe Katrana would send the dragonstone to Wrathion, and that led to a whole slew of questions. Why didn't he trust her word? What reason would she have for keeping the dragonstone from him? The answers were potentially not ones Anduin wanted to deal with, even though he had no idea what they could possibly _be._

All he knew for certain was his faith in her was failing, and as much as he wanted to think otherwise, there had to be a reason. He just hoped it was an unjustified or uninformed one.

He frowned. He'd deal with that when he got to it.

———Frost Fall 29th———

" **Fus Ro Dah!** "

A force barreled forward, blasting waves of snow into the air. The flakes gripped Wrathion's clothes, dusting him in thin layers of white, though his blood was hot with exertion and the cold barely reached him. Apparitions with long hair and thick robes collapsed at the will of his Voice, shattering into wisps of ethereal magic as they struck the ground. Two laid in glittery heaps, and the last continued her approach. Wrathion spared a white breath as he dodged back, and swung a kick into the apparition's midsection, bursting her into two sparkling pieces.

"What're you waiting for?" he yelled across the courtyard with a fervent grin.

"You aren't tired, Dragonborn?" Jaina called back, her own exhaustion blatant in the clouds of white air that the wind swept from her mouth.

It was something of a rhetorical question anyway—even from her distance, Jaina could see the sweat that had long since broken across Wrathion's forehead. Other clues included the past discarding of his cloak and turban, invitations for the frigid air to have at him.

"I'm just getting started," he answered.

Jaina only smirked, then willed her Voice to rally and Shouted. " **Fiik Lo Sah!** "

Her Shout struck the snow, kicking more of it into the air as a spell of blue and white bloomed from the impact. A mirror replica of the Tongue emerged from the magic and whispered into each hand, where flames as blue and ghostly as herself ignited. She cast one toward Wrathion, who dodged aside. The fireball exploded harmlessly in a mess of blue against the wall of High Hrothgar.

"Try that trick I showed you!" Jaina said.

Wrathion sneered and held up his hand, curling his fingers to resemble the bars of a cage. " **Yol!** " he Shouted into the palm of his hand. A spurt of fire shot forth, and its strength pushed his hand back. He struggled to hold the flame in his fingers, but managed to steady it until it burned there like the head of a torch. Wrathion didn't know much about sorcery, but Jaina had shown him the benefits of learning to cradle dangerous magic in one's hand.

The mirror launched her other fireball, which Wrathion narrowly avoided with a duck, then closed in to finish the apparition off. They weren't particularly difficult to fight—not the ones Jaina had supplied so far at least, so jabbing his burning palm into the mirror's jaw and unleashing the captured Shout was a relatively simple task, and one that shattered the mirror's head into sparks and glitter.

An arm roped around his chest, having snuck under his shoulder, and clasped a hand against his opposite cheek, effectively ensnaring him to the apparition behind him. There was one moment of shock, which was instantly swallowed by frustration as realization dawned. Wrathion snarled and jerked, but the mirror didn't relent. Jaina gave a tired laugh from where she stood.

"I should've seen the hint," he hissed at her, yanking against the apparition's grip again.

Jaina grinned. "Hard to tell all those spells apart when they're all blue, huh?"

Wrathion scoffed, and managed to crane his head back behind him, where he saw not only the mirror that restrained him, but a second that stood in place of where the second 'fireball' had landed—those fireballs being captured Shouts containing the power of Jaina's spell. Phantom Form, she called it. She'd refused to teach it to him at least thrice now. Something about how he'd wreak petty havoc on High Hrothgar with it. He'd shrugged, because she was probably right.

For the third time, he jerked in the mirror's grip. "Call off your doppelgangers, _please._ "

Jaina smiled coyly and, with a flick of her wrist, both apparitions were nothing but glitter. Wrathion almost staggered, but managed to stay on his feet and dusted snow out of his clothes.

"You're getting better," Jaina said. "Your Voice lasts you longer."

"I couldn't be more glad," Wrathion huffed. "Having to deliberate which words to use and when was an extra challenge I'll be happy to do without."

"Don't get carried away," she warned with a teasing smile. "I've seen you overestimate yourself."

"Hm!" He turned his head away and crossed his arms. "I don't know what you mean."

"Uh-huh. Come on."

Wrathion shot a look at her. "We're done already?"

"Considering you'd be dead if that'd been a real fight..." she trailed off, leaving her point as was, as she headed for the monastery.

Wrathion scoffed again and begrudgingly pursued her. "We should be _pushing_ my limits, especially now that they're so much _bigger._ What dragon stands a chance against me now?"

"You forget I'm not to train you to slay dragons," Jaina said. "I'm only tempering your Voice."

He frowned. "I wonder, then, why it was my _fire breath_ you chose to teach me to hold in my hand."

Jaina paused in her step, which Wrathion noted, then she laughed once and kept going. "You complained about being cold that day. It made sense."

He doubted that answer, but relented. He was hungry anyway.

Jaina pushed through the heavy door back into High Hrothgar, holding it for Wrathion to slip by first. She glanced outside and frowned. "Where's Right?"

"Around," Wrathion answered idly, shaking off the grip of the cold. "She most likely snuck away during practice. She hates the cold, you know."

Jaina hummed and came inside, letting the door clatter shut behind her. "You taught her Dovahzul? She can translate the names of Shouts."

Wrathion laughed once. "She taught herself," he said.

"That's impressive."

"She's spent nearly as much time as I in nord ruins," he said. "She says she 'got bored'."

"You do drift into another plane when you're reading. It's a little dangerous when you're interrupted."

He fired another look at her. The Tongues at High Hrothgar didn't mention the three straight days he spent reading almost every book in the monastery often, but when they did, he bristled defensively. Jaina just smiled. He huffed and retreated deeper inside.

"I don't _drift,_ " he grumbled.

"But you talk to yourself," she teased.

"I'm _thinking,_ " he defended. "Out loud."

Jaina bit back a laugh and just shrugged. Wrathion grabbed an armful of food from the pantry and turned to the Tongue, bearing an air of importance and boredom he knew she saw through but felt better for putting on regardless.

"I'm retiring to my room," he said.

Jaina nodded. "Keep an eye out for Rhonin. He said he'd be needing you soon."

Pff. Rhonin. Wrathion shrugged. "He knows where to find me."

"He also doesn't want to risk another run in with your dagger by startling you."

"I was—" he started to complain, then realized the trap he was descending into. He huffed, and mumbled, "thinking."

Jaina sneered amusedly. "I admire your intrigue."

He knew she meant it, but he took it as sarcasm anyway, stuffed a dried fruit in his mouth and trudged off to his room. Jaina let him be, and he heard her disappear to some other corner of the monastery. By impulse, he continued to shove food in his mouth every time he passed a Tongue to evade conversation, though realistically he knew they seldom spoke. And, as Belleford had demonstrated, it was for good reason. His room wasn't far, though, and he crawled into his bed on arrival.

The room was cozy enough, even if everything was made of black stone that only served to capture the chill of High Hrothgar. Wrathion did miss the almost autumn-y temperatures of the Rift below. It was still cold as sin, but at least there wasn't usually snow clinging to every inch of him. He could feel flakes melting into his clothes and hair. He'd have to change. He stuffed more fruit in his mouth.

"You forgot this."

Wrathion glanced up at his bedside, where Right had materialized with his cloak and turban. "Ah," he said, and gestured at the foot of the bed. "Thank you. I didn't realize you stayed."

"I went perimeter-snooping," she said, setting the garments down as instructed. "Saw you were inside when I got back."

He nodded. "Have you found a way past that infernal blizzard yet?"

"Nope," she said. Wrathion rolled his eyes. "It's a damn mystery how Rhonin disappeared into it. I mean, unless he can do Jaina's teleporting thing too. She ever teach you how to do that?"

"It's not a Shout, she says," Wrathion grumbled. He shifted his jaw, considering the possibility and then immediately changing his mind. "There's an answer," he said. " _You_ just have to figure it out."

She shrugged. "Might stay a mystery unless he goes up there again."

He grumbled and ground his teeth. Wrathion had told her to follow Rhonin on the day of their arrival a month and a half ago, when that troubling Shout had summoned the Tongue. But Right only reported that she'd trailed him to a great archway, one Wrathion had since seen for himself, that opened up to a path higher up the mountain, submerged in an eternal storm that was perilous to try and move through. She'd returned in a condition worse than she'd left, as her healing wounds from the blue dragon had thrived in the inexplicable weather. Wrathion had forbade her from entering the blizzard again.

The caution was necessary, as he very much didn't want to lose Right to some arctic anomaly, but the resulting patience such caution asked of him was almost as obnoxious as the blizzard itself. Rhonin had only ascended the path once, and while Right had kept watch in a tower positioned only yards from the archway, she hadn't gained any further insight when he returned two days later, except that somehow, he seemed able to bend the blizzard to his will. Wrathion suspected the Voice had something to do with it, knowing the Kirin Tor, but the Unrelenting Force he'd since perfected under Jaina's instruction was swallowed whole by the storm one night, when he'd tested it. _If_ it was a Shout, it wasn't that one. There'd been several times he'd wanted to try Whirlwind—a Shout that could grant him temporary speed and, with more power, the bladed edges of dangerous gales—but he didn't want the tundra to rip him to shreds, so he'd resisted.

He sighed and slumped against the wall, picking through his collected dinner for more fruit. He didn't really care for the rest of it.

"It's quiet here," Right noted.

"Of course it's quiet," Wrathion whined. "The Kirin Tor would rather whisper amongst themselves than put their Voices to any practical use. Skyrim burns below, and they sit on their mountain, blind to the destruction of their own siblings."

"You get angrier every time you say that," she said, glancing at him.

He grinned falsely. "Because now they've got _me_ doing it, and I'm at a loss! I've learned so much here, Right—I've gained so much _power,_ and I could gain more, but it comes at the cost of leaving Skyrim to her own devices _longer._ "

Right didn't say anything. She didn't have to, because he went on anyway.

"If they would've just had me years ago..." He paused, then gave an angry laugh. "Think of that! This dragon nonsense would be _over_ by now. But no!" He slumped again and groaned. "All they had to do was listen to me, Right."

"I know," she soothed.

He was quiet for a while, until he sat up again. "But! You bring up a fair point: this is getting ridiculous. We must return to the rest of the world soon. This has been enlightening, surely, but I fear to think what has changed since we arrived."

"And that blizzard?"

He shifted his jaw. "Irrelevant," he lied.

Right raised an eyebrow at him. He groaned again.

"Perhaps I'll worry about it later!" he said. "I don't know what's up there. I _do_ know what's down in Skyrim."

She watched him for a moment, because she knew giving up on that path to the summit was infuriating to him, but she relented and shrugged. "So are we leaving?"

"You are," he said. When she blinked, the only evidence of her alarm, he went on. "I'd like you to return to the Rift and gather reports from my agents," he explained, and screwed up his nose as he picked through his food. "Being away from Skyrim this long is making me irritable."

"Of course," Right said flatly. "Because you're definitely not always—"

" _Shh._ "

She smirked. He rolled his eyes. "And when are you coming down from this _irritable_ peak?" she asked.

"Soon," he said, and smiled when he found two more slices of fruit to chew on. He popped one into his mouth and continued. "But first, I'd like to see how much more information I can siphon from the Kirin Tor. And," he swallowed, and turned the second slice around in his fingers, "Rhonin wants to see me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [dragon translations](http://textuploader.com/5v6f9).
> 
> i should also note that, with the legion expansion coming to warcraft, it's become increasingly confusing to me to keep referring to the 'argent crusade/imperial legion' faction in this fic as the, well, legion. so i'm going to write them down as 'the (argent) crusade' and 'crusaders' for the most part now, still occasionally referring to them as legionnaires because somewhere in here i've already referenced that they're called legionnaires as a sort of insult. SO UH, YEAHP.
> 
> i kind of expected jaina and wrathion to vehemently hate each other and then warm up to each other over time, but uh, honestly, so far it's been going the other way around. you'll see. there's a great convo way later on where jaina reams him. listen, it's great, just trust me on this.


	26. Mah Do Kinbok

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **content warnings:** parental death mentions galore

Chapter 26: Mah Do Kinbok  
"Drop of a Kingpin"

———Sun's Dusk 2nd———

_They're here._

It wasn't a voice that spoke to her. At least, not one that could be heard. The words reached her from the hands of the bright-eyed redguard, who stared back at her with an air of calm satisfaction. The imperial looked from her comrade's hands to her face, acknowledging the rogue's message.

A door clattered upstairs. The imperial smirked and leapt off the table, newer than the rotting husk she'd had thrown out weeks ago. She made her way up the stairs and around the corner, her companion silently following her, and soon more noise answered her. The commotion of something heavy being rattled around. She knew what, as she reached the hall where her family worked to right a grand coffin against the wall.

"So they are," she said aloud. The redguard smiled.

The working pair turned, the tauren stoic and the other, a breton, caked in snow and, appropriately enough, jittering. "Mistress!" the latter called. "You're alive! I thought—"

"Where have you been?" she demanded, moving closer.

He stopped, taking a moment to adjust himself. "Moving Her so far north wasn't easy, you see," he mumbled, his head tucked in his shoulders. "Especially not on notice as short as an ambush."

The imperial glanced at the redguard beside her, as the latter's hands gestured urgently. "Forget your excuses," the imperial translated, and eyed the breton again. "Is She hurt?"

"Heavens no," he blurted out, then backed up and gestured at the coffin. "See for yourself, Brighteyes! Your uh, _sweet_ Night Mother is unscathed!"

Brighteyes, the redguard, accepted the invitation eagerly, passing both the breton and the tauren. She swung the coffin open with free abandon, which made the breton shriek and twist away from the grotesque sight entombed within. No one was as accustomed to the corpse's sight as Brighteyes, though no one else reeled as the jittering breton had.

" _Divines,_ Listener," he sputtered. "Must you do that in front of the girl?"

"Vanessa is not a child, Jitters," the tauren growled. "She's the boss now."

The breton, Jitters, shied back with a grimace. "Well yes, I understand that, Mr. Smite, but she's still very young. And, hasn't she seen enough bloodshed since Falkreath?"

"Not enough to stop me from shoving a knife down your throat," Vanessa said.

Jitters swallowed. "Noted. But," he brightened then, moving closer to Vanessa. "Mistress, I'd thought for certain you had perished in Falkreath! Did the Crusade not apprehend you?"

"They did," she said. "They were going to behead me in Helgen. Care to guess what happened next?"

Jitters turned a stark white. "You—you saw the..."

Vanessa rolled her shoulder in an effort to distill her knotting burns. Her hardened expression proved to be answer enough to Jitters, who stumbled back and looked as if he might collapse.

"Oh," he wheezed, clutching his head. "Hoh, gods..."

"You act like you were the one that got away with your life," Mr. Smite grumbled.

Jitters cleared his throat and attempted to stand straighter. "It's just a lot to take in, is all. I'm glad you're well, Mistress."

Vanessa resisted the urge to roll her eyes. The coffin clattered shut, catching her attention, as Brighteyes returned to the group with a keen look about her.

"What is it?" Vanessa asked. "Jitters didn't screw up, did he?"

Brighteyes spoke to her, a whole new kind of urgency claiming every word she signed.

"What's she saying?" Jitters asked, half afraid he _had_ screwed up. Mr. Smite smacked him in the chest, earning a sharp 'oof'.

"The Night Mother is fine," Vanessa said as she read Brighteyes' hands. She squinted at what the Listener said next. "A Black Sacrament has been preformed."

"Ah!" Jitters piped up.

Vanessa glanced at him. "Does that sound familiar?"

"I heard rumors as I made my way through the Rift," he said. "A courier from Shor's Stone was found dead, stabbed repeatedly and sprinkled in Nightshade and dog fur."

Vanessa sharpened at this. "Dog fur?"

"That's just what I heard," Jitters said, nervous of her reaction.

"Perhaps they used a dog in their Sacrament," Mr. Smite said.

"No, no," Jitters shook his head. "That'd be ridiculous. The courier satisfied the rules of the Sacrament, why would they need a dog too? Besides, all the rumors stressed it was _just_ dog fur. No animals in..."

He fell quiet when he caught Vanessa's wild grin. Mr. Smite crooked an eyebrow. "Mistress?"

She laughed. "The Sacrament occurred in the Rift, you said?"

Jitters hesitated, then gave a wobbly nod. "Y-yes, that's right..."

"Then let's go," she said, eyeing Mr. Smite, who only grunted and followed her as she turned away.

"Mistress?" Jitters stammered. "What's the significance of—of dog fur?"

"I just have a good feeling about this," was all Vanessa said, then she left the room with Mr. Smite in tow.

Jitters frowned and glanced at Brighteyes. She signed something at him, with sharp gestures and a sharper stare, and Jitters didn't have to understand the words to know she'd called him something rude.

"Mistress," Mr. Smite called as Vanessa stormed purposefully through the halls.

She didn't answer, but was forced to acknowledge the tauren when he sped up and grabbed her arm, whirling her around. "I said we're going," she hissed.

"You're the boss," he said, "but I think this is too soon."

"Too soon? You want Skyrim to forget about us?"

"They won't forget," Mr. Smite said. "The second we leave our mark again, they'll remember. But we're weak now."

Vanessa pulled her arm free and turned away. "I know."

"So why are we already answering Sacraments—"

"Who's the boss again?"

Mr. Smite froze, then scoffed. "You are."

"That's right, I am. Vanessa VanCleef, daughter of Edwin VanCleef. My father saved this family from the brink of death all those years ago, when you so generously gave him refuge after the fallout in Whiterun. He gave this family its legacy back, and now I will preserve what he built up. So do what you're told and you may yet have a hand in that legacy."

"Your father wouldn't want—"

Vanessa whirled around, producing a dagger from her armor, but Mr. Smite caught both her wrists and held her in place. He was stronger than her, obviously, and whether she liked it or not, she didn't have enough practice with blades to best many of the rogues in this sanctuary in a knife fight. She jerked with the intention of moving forward, but when that failed she pulled back. Mr. Smite released her, and she staggered with a huff.

"My father is dead," she growled. "I watched it with my own eyes, before they dragged me away to Helgen to get torched by a _dragon_ of all things. But before he died, he _told me_ what he wanted, and that was for our family to succeed."

Mr. Smite took a moment to breathe. "And what do you suppose this will do to help us succeed?"

"Simple," she said, smirking falsely. "There's only a handful of us left. We need more siblings if we're going to strike back—and we _will_ strike back. Skyrim will not forget the name VanCleef. And," her eyes glimmered in that inspired way Mr. Smite knew hers and her father's to, "I know where to start."

"With a dog?"

"You better not call Mr. Harrington that when you meet him."

Mr. Smite blinked, watching Vanessa's smirk grow wider, until it dawned on him. "He's no dog."

"Oh," she said, and gave a single laugh. "He's a dog all right."

———Sun's Dusk 2nd———

"Father?"

Anduin received no answer from the room. He hadn't exactly hoped for one, upon seeing no guards stationed outside, but then the prince had to have inherited his own evasiveness from someone, and Varian was just as prone to dodging his security as Anduin had been in the Imperial City a time or three. It sounded bad when put down plainly like that, but being followed around at every waking hour was somewhat maddening at moments.

Anduin admitted he and his father both could stand to improve their timing, though.

He latched the door and huffed, racking his brain. He'd already checked every other place he could think of. The king's bedroom was his last resort, as Varian was usually far too much of a busybody to be there in the middle of the day. So if not there, or in the throne room, or the war room or anywhere else, where was he?

It wasn't urgent, exactly. Not objectively so, anyway, but the Crusader's visit the other day had been gnawing away at Anduin's mind ever since he calmed down from his scare with Lady Katrana. The Empire wasn't prohibited from Dragonsreach—and with good reason, Anduin supposed, if it was true they'd label anyone sparing Arthas analytic thought a rebel—but Varian had been very clear that he wanted nothing to do with the civil war as many times as Anduin had snuck the topic under his nose. To go from casting away every courier that stepped foot in Whiterun to talking (well, _arguing_ ) with what looked to have been a very decorated Crusader was an unexpected turn of events.

It was bugging him, that was all, and he wanted to ask about it. But first he had to _find_ his father.

At a loss, Anduin left the king's door and went about wandering the palace. His leg already ached from all the scurrying around he'd been up to, but he was pleased to find that, slowly but surely, he was building up a resilience to the burden. He still relied heavily on the cane, and according to Master Velen would for a while yet, but any improvement was eagerly welcomed. He was warned not to overdo it, though, or else he might set back the healing. He begrudgingly realized the warning was much like security, in the way that he felt prone to avoiding it or otherwise aggravated by how much it limited him.

Dragonsreach was buzzing today. Anduin didn't know the exact reason, having been too absorbed in tracking down his father, but it felt almost louder than usual. Normally the halls were stagnant, with only the occasional shift of breastplate to fracture the silence, but conversation, albeit whispered, hovered in nearly every corridor Anduin passed through. He wondered if it was about the Crusader's visit? That was the only recent event Anduin could come up with, but even that seemed like it would have staled by now. This seemed too fresh.

He found himself in the throne room again, where servants were already preparing the two long tables for dinner. Anduin was surprised to see they'd brought out the nicest dishware. Such plates usually only appeared for celebrations of some sort. Was there a birthday he'd forgotten? He felt like that was unlikely, and ignored his mind's prompt reminder of the bouts of amnesia he'd dealt with following Helgen.

Katrana's study was just to his left. Anduin glanced at it, warily, but the courage he'd mustered to enter the study days ago dared not show its face today. He didn't know what to do about the dragonstone. He knew he didn't think Katrana would send it to Wrathion when she was done with it, though he still didn't know how that would possibly benefit her or Whiterun. He'd humored trying to take it himself and then send a courier with it to track the Dragonborn down. The longer he dwelled on it, the less of a joke the idea became, but he felt like too much could go wrong. Would she suspect him when she found the stone missing? He shook his head and tried to pass the worry off as paranoia.

He spotted Bolvar and smiled, picking up his pace to catch up. "Bolvar."

The highlord turned to him with a start, and was quick to smile in turn. "Prince Anduin. Enjoying a walk?"

"More or less," Anduin said. "Have you seen my father? I'd like to speak with him."

Something odd crossed Bolvar's face. His smile faltered, so briefly Anduin would've believed he'd imagined it if the highlord hadn't stammered after. "Ah, he went to the mausoleum."

The _mausoleum?_ Well, Anduin probably wouldn't have thought to look there. "What's he doing there?"

There was that weird hesitation again. Anduin squinted visibly, which prompted Bolvar to hurry through the pause. "It's probably best if you ask him yourself, I think."

That only served to confuse Anduin further. "Is everything all right, Bolvar?"

"It is," Bolvar assured, and seemed genuine. "But I think you should hear it from your father."

Anduin blinked, and the conflicting hints he was getting from Bolvar made him uneasy. In fact, Bolvar's behavior only made everything else Anduin had noticed seem uncomfortably out of place. But he accepted the answer and smiled again. "I'll ask him, then. Thank you."

Bolvar nodded in turn, and putting off the unnerved feeling, Anduin set off for the front doors of the palace. A pair of guards glanced his way, startled out of their absorbed conversation, and nodded their heads as Anduin exited onto the bridge and across the moat. As if his leg had a mind of its own, it twinged at the flight of winding stone steps that descended away from Dragonsreach, but he swallowed and pushed on. By the time he reached the bottom, he'd had to briefly explain to two different guardsmen that he was only on his way to visit his father and that no, he was fine, really. He ran a hand over his face and felt the sweat that had beaded on his forehead. The edges of his residual limb burned.

He paused at the foot of the stairs, a forlornness claiming him for the moment. The Gildergreen, withered and sorry looking, towered over the Plains District, but without all the glory Anduin had seen in it before leaving for Cyrodiil all those months ago. It looked almost like a shadow of itself, with its branches dulled and gangly. Anduin could see black traces of the lightning bolt that had sapped the vibrancy from the great tree. His leg smarted again.

Somewhere far off, Anduin heard a clap of thunder. He glanced up, noting the dark clouds, heavy with held rain, and wondered if he wasn't the only one mourning the tree. The lightning was miles away, though. He clasped the Kynareth's amulet around his neck and, with a quick prayer that the Divine ward off the dangers of the storm from the city, pressed on with his initial task. The exertion of descending into the Plains District had done well to fend off the cold air, but the damper on his mood seemed to invite it right back in. He crossed the western bridge and turned toward the mausoleum, silently cursing the small flight of stairs he had to climb as his leg throbbed, and spared a glance at the wooden dragon heads carved into the arch propped over the top of the stone steps. Funnily enough, he found the heads didn't actually resemble real dragons as much as he'd used to assume. They reminded him more of gryphons now. It must've been the beaklike headpieces.

Small gravestones littered the flanks of the mausoleum, inscribed with the names of loved ones. Anduin considered checking inside, but after what his leg had turned into a rather time-consuming journey, he had developed a theory where his father might be, and instead followed the path crawling up the hill on the left, passing tombstones as he went. And sure enough, at the top, Anduin found his father knelt before a large stone monument, decorated with flora and elaborate sculptures. At the head and foot of the lain stone slab were two identical statues, both expertly crafted likenesses to Arkay shrines, and on the tall headstone behind the slab, a Kynareth shrine of similar accuracy. It was a powerful testament to the woman who laid buried beneath the monument. Anduin didn't have to read the plaque to know whose name was on it.

He slowed as he neared his father. Varian didn't acknowledge him, and Anduin was unsure if he didn't realize he was there or willingly chose to tend to his silent prayer instead. Either way, Anduin didn't interrupt. He waited, admiring the prestigious memorial of Tiffin Wrynn, as the wind brushed through the folds in his clothes, though he felt it no longer, instead lost to his thoughts.

He had few memories of his mother. He'd only been three when she died, and though that wasn't much time anyway, he felt like he only remembered mere seconds of those three years. It was a fact that plagued him at times. How many nights had he spent lying awake, willing his mind to find it in itself to give him just a few more moments with her? He'd heard a person could remember far more than they do, that a wealth of memories hid just out of any one mind's reach. What would it take to unearth so many seconds lost in time he never could've known he was running out of?

There was one memory, though, that dwelled in his head now. He couldn't remember any of the sounds, but knew it'd been raining because he remembered shifting close to his mother to keep from getting wet. She was knelt, like his father was now, but it was the tombstone of Anduin's grandfather she bowed before. Varian had been bedridden with illness. Anduin remembered sniffling in the cold and fearing he, too, was getting sick. It was Llane Wrynn's birthday, though, and Tiffin had convinced Varian to stay in bed while she took the flowers to his grave and wished him well. She'd invited Anduin to accompany her. He hadn't really understood what they were doing then, and he'd never known his grandfather.

But he and his mother had stayed there, for hours as far as Anduin could tell. A long time, surely, and in near silence, save for the rain. The similarity between that moment and this was odd, but, had he never stood here as his father silently prayed, Anduin wondered if the memory would have ever finally become clear to him. He'd remembered it momentarily before, but never stopped to think about it. He felt sad now, realizing what he hadn't known then.

The thunder grumbled in the sky. It was muffled, and so distant Anduin hadn't even seen the flash of lightning prior to it, but he glanced up anyway. The clouds looked as dark and heavy as before.

"Edwin VanCleef is dead."

Anduin froze. The name rung in his ears, like an unending echo, and for a moment he felt light and far away from himself. Anduin had heard the name a thousand times back then, for what felt like years after Tiffin Wrynn's death. It'd been VanCleef that had killed her, after all, and over something so ridiculous. It was so _stupid,_ the events that had led to him taking her life away, taking all those seconds Anduin hadn't known to cling to then. Some days he wanted to scream at the nobles for not paying the man what he asked. Others, he wondered how any sum of money could turn someone to stealing a child's mother away as he had.

The courtyard poured back into place around him, and for a moment he feared how long he'd been lost in his whirling mind. But his father hadn't moved since he spoke. He still kneeled at the grave of Tiffin Wrynn. He suddenly knew what all the commotion in Dragonsreach was about, and why the fanciest dishes were decorating the dining tables. He knew why Bolvar had thought it best Varian tell him.

Finally, Anduin found his voice, weak as it was. "He is?"

"Falkreath finally found the time to send word," Varian said. He was bitter about the delay when he'd heard, but now his voice carried no trace of it. "They dug up his lair and burned it to the ground. They killed him there and executed several of his rogues in Helgen."

Burned. Rogues. Helgen. Anduin recalled the prisoners he'd seen carted into the city the day Deathwing struck it down, their red bandanas like VanCleef's signature on them. He hadn't realized who they were then, but now it was obvious. He remembered that terrible stare one of them had cast his way. Had she recognized him, or his tabard perhaps? Did VanCleef's rogues hate Whiterun as much as VanCleef himself? Anduin's thoughts were muffled and spinning. He wasn't sure he'd heard most of what his father just said. His mind kept ringing.

"He's dead," was all he managed to say.

For a moment, Varian was quiet, until he finally just sighed. "He's dead."

Anduin breathed then, and for a moment he felt just a little more grounded. His body shuddered, and it wasn't because of the cold. He bowed his head and shut his eyes, willing dizziness and sickness away. He feared he might collapse but couldn't begin to protect himself against the possibility. His mind shifted in and out of focus, at moments aware of himself and at others not. Everything was loud or quiet, bright or dark, and it was only when he felt a hand on his arm that it all stopped. For one clear moment, as he looked up, he saw his father standing in front of him, his eyes wet with no falling rain to blame, and Anduin knew.

He didn't wait for Varian to step closer. He only threw himself forward, wrapping his arms tight around the king's back and burying his face against his chest. The reciprocation was immediate and dragged the first sobs right out of Anduin before he could even think to swallow them. He wasn't happy. He wasn't even relieved. He forgot about the Crusader, the Gildergreen, the dragonstone.

He just finally felt like he could breathe in.

———Sun's Dusk 2nd———

It didn't rain in High Hrothgar.

Wrathion stared idly out the window, as snowflakes whirled in the air outside. He could hardly call what they did falling, for if they ever reached the ground, it was only after possible hours of spinning and skirting at the bladed wind's mercy. It was dizzying, and so while Wrathion saw them, he didn't truly watch them. Instead he dwelled deep within himself, where it was warm without the snow and quiet without the wind. His thoughts took surreal forms, but unlike the nauseating snowstorm, these labyrinthine imageries were like his own personal language, nonsensical to all but him. He picked through them with ease, as though he could simply flick his wrist and the thoughts would move and warp at his commands.

It were as if his mind were not in his head, but instead cast across worlds, if not whole planes of reality. Maybe even shattered, and this was the only way to draw the pieces back together and make use of what otherwise amounted to something obsolete. It was hard to explain how it worked, or even how he'd come up with it. It just felt right. It contained him into one being instead of however many he felt like he could be otherwise. (Three? Thirty? Three-hundred? He didn't dwell on it.) And it was quiet, if he so desired it be. Quiet, warm and safe. No dragons nor nightmares could reach him here, in a realm of his own making. It was his to define.

Now, if he could just learn how to reach it when he didn't _feel_ quiet, warm or safe. _That_ would be something.

"Prince Wrathion."

His vision sharpened, and he watched, momentarily, as the snow frenzied outside. It was just as dizzying as he remembered, so he turned his head over on the pillow and acknowledged his agent standing in the doorway. He smirked as he did, because the title of 'prince' had failed to wane on him since Right first reported the codename in Riverwood.

"Good, you're back," he said. "How was your return to Skyrim? What did you learn?"

"Dragon sightings are growing more frequent," Right said. She took Wrathion's perked interest as signal to enter the room. "Several agents have heard rumors about lairs on various peaks. One claims he saw a green up in Winterhold."

"A _green?_ " Wrathion launched into a sit. "A green dragon in Winterhold?"

"So he says," Right shrugged. "He only glimpsed it before it disappeared west, though. Could've just been the lighting."

Wrathion grinned. "Oh, I hope not."

"Well," she cocked her head thoughtfully, "they did find an empty grave crawling with pissed off spriggans. Could be related."

He screwed up his nose. "Spriggans," he spat.

"Do you want me to send someone to track down Nettlebane?"

"No, no," he said, waving a hand at her. "Forget the grave. It's useless to me if it's empty."

Right shrugged again, this one accompanied by a hum that sounded more like 'suit yourself'. "There were some non-dragon reports too," she said. "Do you want to hea—"

"Yes, _yes,_ of _course_ I do," Wrathion snapped, shifting agitatedly in his seat. For as much as he learned in High Hrothgar, he felt like it came at the cost of drifting from Skyrim. It seemed like his ascent from Ivarstead had been ages ago. "I could even stand to hear about this annoying civil war at this point!"

"The war seems to be mostly skirmishes for territory at the moment," Right offered helpfully. Wrathion sneered, but listened regardless. "Arthas Menethil is still holed up in Windhelm, last anyone heard, but there're noises he won't be much longer. The Crusade's been appealing to Whiterun for months."

"They're undecided?" Wrathion asked, disbelieving. "King Wrynn certainly seems the type to lend his sword to the Crusade at even the slightest provocation—though," he cupped his chin in a hand, "I suppose his son studying Restoration magic might deter him."

"And apparently, he and Menethil were friends."

"Ugh," Wrathion rolled his head back. "Never mind, then." He supposed that nord prince had to get his habit of beneficial doubt from _someone._ He straightened again. "What else?"

"The Dark Brotherhood has, apparently, been destroyed."

"Oh?"

"VanCleef is dead."

 _That_ was news he hadn't expected to hear. "When?"

Right actually, literally bit her cheek. Which roughly translated to 'a long time ago; it's old enough news to make you mad'.

"I _beg your pardon,_ " Wrathion snapped, predictably mad. "Why am I only hearing about this _now?_ "

"It wasn't even a day before Helgen," Right said. "Word of the city's collapse and Deathwing swallowed any news about a half-dead guild. Most of the holds are only finding out now."

He groaned and then waved his hand in a shooing gesture. "Fine, never mind—VanCleef is dead, and?"

"The Crusade reportedly dragged a handful of his rogues back to Helgen to be executed. They didn't get to all of them before Deathwing hit, but the theory is they were wiped out with the rest of the city."

Wrathion mulled the thought over for a moment. "An organization of rogues," he grinned, "ambushed."

Right clucked her tongue. "Irony."

Wrathion hummed, then clapped his hands once. "It sounds like nuisances are making quick work of themselves, and in perfect time. Perhaps even this tiresome war will be over with soon, if Menethil is making a move. We might rally the holds against these dragons yet. What _is_ he doing?"

"Not sure," Right said. "There's just noise that he has his eyes set on something beyond Windhelm."

Wrathion screwed up his nose, then shrugged. Right crooked an eyebrow.

"You don't want to intervene?"

"The war has done its damage," he said. "Skyrim is already divided because of it. All I want is for a side to win and flush out any resistance. It matters little to me which side _does_ win—if Menethil casts out the Empire, fine—more healers, and dragons don't seem to like sun magic. The Crusade, in its fragile condition, would make little difference with or without, especially with such infighting."

"What about the Thalmor?"

Wrathion grinned again. " _Ruthless,_ and I _like_ their initiative. Surely, if they could control the masses, it'd do wonders against the dragons, but... Hm." He cupped his mouth in a hand, eyeing the ceiling as he thought. It was a difficult subject, the Thalmor, because Wrathion was not stupid and knew he and they were alike in a margin of ways. But there was something about them, something about the thought of lending them the power they sought that made him uneasy. "I'm not so sure they wouldn't mind if Skyrim simply disappeared into the sea—as Winterhold did once. It would certainly solve their resistance problem."

Right hummed in turn. She caught Wrathion frowning to himself, as he considered something privately. "What now?" she asked, not crossly, but as a genuine question. They'd spent more time than either of them were comfortable with on this mountain, after all.

He focused on her, taking a moment to come to from his thoughts. Then he shifted to the side of the bed and kicked his feet to the floor. "We're going."

"Today? Have you talked to Rhonin?"

"We're about to," he said, "since he's failed to seek me out. Unless he wants to discuss whatever he needs me for now, he'll have to hope I find myself in this place again someday, because I'm not waiting any longer."

He stood then, collecting the heavier pieces of his leather from their places around the room, as he had no intention of returning here. He swept out of the room, Right in tow, and made his way through the monastery. Tongues, as few as there were, spared him glances or nods as he passed, though they sensed his agency and Wrathion could see, in the crooks of their eyebrows or creases of their cheeks, that they knew he was leaving. Some were concerned. Others looked grateful. Wrathion sneered at these latter ones.

He found Rhonin on the far side of the monastery, in a room Wrathion had since visited a handful of times. It was a large room, rivaled perhaps only by the front chamber, with walls bearing the same etchings of dragons that made Wrathion's skin crawl when he remembered how their stone eyes watched him. In the center was a long round table, lined with perhaps more chairs than there were Tongues to occupy them, and hollowed with a firepit in the center. It was at this table, standing between two of the chairs, that Rhonin had laid out work of some kind.

"Dragonborn," he greeted, without looking up and right as Wrathion had opened his mouth. He only turned to the Dragonborn and smirked when Wrathion snapped his mouth closed and huffed. "I hoped you'd come find me sooner or later."

"I have a door," Wrathion complained. "Or is knocking too noisy for your silent Way?"

Rhonin sneered, but his eyes glowed with amusement. At least he seemed to like Wrathion more than Wrathion generally liked him. "My Way invokes little meddling. I can only help as much as you ask me to."

"Oh, don't," Wrathion said, rolling his eyes. "I wasn't inviting you to tell me about it. What do you want? I'm short on time."

"You're leaving."

He stated it, but the surprise on his face told Wrathion it was a question. "Of course I'm leaving," he answered flatly, like it was a stupid question to boot.

Rhonin seemed conflicted, then turned to his work again. Wrathion crooked an eyebrow, suddenly wondering if what he had on the table was related to why he wanted to see the Dragonborn. Wrathion leaned forward on the balls of his feet, trying to see what he'd already determined were papers. One was a map, mostly untouched, but recently scathed with fresh red ink. Wrathion had read enough maps to tell the circled location was somewhere in the Pale, nearly due north of the Throat of the World.

"Then this is good timing," Rhonin said finally. He smiled at the table. "You came here to study the Voice."

"Obviously," Wrathion drawled.

"You knew Shouts well before you came, though, because you've studied what knowledge lay about Skyrim."

" _And?_ "

"And," Rhonin slid his map across the table, toward Wrathion, "I know where to find that knowledge."

Wrathion squinted, then approached the table and twisted the map around so it was upright. He'd been right, the location was in the Pale—on the brinks of both Whiterun Hold and Eastmarch, even. It was a peak, denoted by the details of the map, and under the circle was a name. "Shearpoint," he said, questioningly, as he tilted his head toward Rhonin. His eyes stayed trained on the map.

"There's a Word Wall there," Rhonin said. "A very unique one."

Wrathion glanced at him, and he knew he'd failed to mask his interest because Rhonin's face split in a cheeky grin. "What's there?"

"An abundance of knowledge," Rhonin said, pleased with himself. Wrathion wondered why, until he continued. "What makes it special is that it's said to recite a _complete_ Shout."

"Three words?" Wrathion said, disbelieving.

"Three words."

Oh, that was tempting.

"I," Rhonin paused, considering. That conflicted look crossed his face again. "I knew you'd leave eventually—soon, even. You're not very patient."

Wrathion scoffed and looked at the map again.

"But that doesn't mean you have to stop studying, and," Rhonin shrugged, smirking coyly again, "perhaps this will entice you to return to Hrothgar."

Wrathion unraveled his meaning quickly. "You know where more Walls are?"

"I know where lots are," Rhonin said.

Oh, that was _so_ tempting.

"But that's not up to me," Rhonin added genuinely. "It's your destiny, and you'll do with it what you see fit. The gods have granted you that privilege. I only hope, perhaps, you'll remember us in Hrothgar."

"I certainly won't forget this cold," Wrathion grumbled. He didn't much want to express his interest in Rhonin's Walls, even if the Tongue already knew he was indeed very interested. "Perhaps we'll meet again, when I finish cleaning up those dragons you," he glanced at one of the engraved dragons on the wall, " _admire_ so."

Rhonin only perked his smile, and to Wrathion's annoyance, the gesture didn't tell him anything. For all he knew, the Tongue might just be happy to hear Wrathion would consider returning. He knew Rhonin would sink his claws into the Dragonborn with his frivolous Way, given the opportunity. Wrathion snatched the map from the table, not caring if Rhonin meant to donate it to him or not, and turned toward the door, but paused a moment later.

"You know a lot about walls," he said. He looked over his shoulder at Rhonin, who was curious to hear him continue. "Have you ever heard of Neltharion's?"

The question surprised Rhonin, if only just. "Neltharion's Wall? It sounds familiar. I might have read about it somewhere."

Wrathion rolled his eyes, more annoyed with the mystery surrounding this damnable Wall than Rhonin himself, and faced the exit again. "Hrothgar has proven valuable to me," he said dully, "but I've spent enough time here."

"Before you go," Rhonin said, "there's one more thing."

"Please don't pitch your Way at me again."

"Not that," Rhonin said, brazenly. "It's about my summons."

Wrathion stopped. He ground his teeth as questions welled in his throat. "When I arrived?"

"That's the one," Rhonin said. "Our leader, the Laas Groniik—"

"That," Wrathion said, spinning toward the Tongue again. "Your Life Binder. Who is that?"

"She is how we knew to call for you," Rhonin said. "You know her name—she's in tune with life and the absence of life. She felt the world shudder when the first dragon died, yet his soul wandered among us still, and she knew the Dragonborn had come."

"Yes, yes, that's nice— _who is she?_ "

Again, Rhonin smiled in a way that betrayed nothing. "She is life."

Wrathion groaned. Word puzzles were annoying, and no, he refused to acknowledge any hypocrisy in saying so.

"She had instructions for me," Rhonin said. His eyebrows bunched, and for the third time, he was visibly conflicted. "To tell you about this Wall, and when you left, to send someone with you."

Wrathion blinked and met Rhonin's face again. "You're sending a Tongue down from your mountain?" He didn't believe it. The only reason the Kirin Tor left their mountain was because they were no longer Kirin Tor. "For what purpose?"

"I cannot say," Rhonin admitted, and gave a light shrug. "But she willed it, and I've never questioned her before."

Wrathion relaxed some, but remained confused. He wasn't sure he was against another Tongue coming with him, though. Perhaps he could still tap into the Kirin Tor's knowledge, even as he dealt with the dragons. That was very desirable to him. So he straightened, pretending he'd never been bewildered by the idea. "Very well," he said. "And who did she tell you t—"

"Rhonin!" a voice echoed from the hall.

The three of them—Rhonin, Wrathion and Right—glanced back in unison as a blur of blonde hair burst into the room. It was Jaina, clutching the door frame with a frantic look about her.

"Is the Dragonborn—" she started, then registered Wrathion's presence. Stunned, she let out a relieved sigh and slumped with her shoulder against the archway. "Wrathion. I thought you'd gone."

Wrathion opened his mouth to reply, but Rhonin spoke first. "Jaina Proudmoore!"

Wrathion, in time with Jaina, glanced at the Tongue only to find him grinning with a keen look in his eye. His hands, which were raised in greeting, clapped together.

"We were just talking about you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [dragon translations](http://textuploader.com/5v6n1).
> 
> hm hm hm. i like this chapter. ~~totally not because i made anduin cry, i mean, that'd just be _mean._~~
> 
> anyway, that's the last of the three-in-one update for the fanfic's one-year birthday. :') hopefully it was worth an inexplicit two-month absence, aha. my bad. i've been pre-occupied! did i say that already? i think i said that last update. so like, four chapters ago now. something like that. yeah! thanks so much for sticking with me, and leaving me so much kind and fun feedback, and being the best. all of you. even the lil quiet ones. i see you! thank you!!! i am genuinely so delighted and thankful for all of you. gosh.


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